


They were flatmates

by NineMagicks



Series: Greenwich Mean Time [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Goblins, Kissing, Living Together, London, M/M, Magic, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Swearing, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-01-05 17:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21212573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: Simon Snow needs a flatmate. He posts an advert in the local paper, and with the help of his best friend Penny (who's sodding off to America) he manages to find a decent replacement. And by "decent" he means...terribly good looking. (Baz is also terrible at other things. Like being friendly. And not spending all morning in the bathroom doing his hair.) Simon doesn't want Baz to know he's got wings and Baz doesn't want Simon to know he's a vampire. It's just your normal, everyday flatmate stuff. Totally normal. Nothing could go wrong...





	1. The Advertisement

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been in my head for a while, so I'm just getting all of my feelings out post-Wayward Son. This is a canon divergence AU fic set in the UK.
> 
> The state of things: Simon defeated the Humdrum and the Mage died in the process. He's got a normal amount of magic left. Penny's mum is headmistress of Watford. Baz didn't go to Watford because his dad thought a tutor was a spectacularly good idea, instead.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I love these characters and hope to do them justice.

**SIMON**

I'm really bad at creative writing.

Penny says I don't _actually_ need to be that creative about it. I can just be straight-forward, she says, and honest, and the good people will come. I ask her if she'll write the advert for me and she says no, but when I nag her about it and fail to make any progress over an entire weekend she caves and agrees. I have to go and buy her some chocolate and crisps, but I'd say that's a fair exchange. I really want crisps too, so it's a win-win, really. I'm good at wearing her down like that. If I just look pathetic enough, Penny will help me. I'm not proud of it, but...it works.

Anyway, it's her fault I even have to _do_ this. She's the one moving out. She's the one sodding off to America to travel with her new boyfriend. (Not Micah. They broke up last year. This one's called Shepard.) We've lived together for a year since school finished and you know what, I thought we had a good thing going here. Clearly not. I mean, I'm sure I can be difficult to live with. I'm not the tidiest person on the planet. I'm also a bit annoying (I must be, because she's always turning the telly up when I'm trying to speak over it).

This is Penny's fault. She _should_ help me. What if I get landed with a complete arse?

I just need to find someone who can split the rent with me and pay the electric bill and not go absolutely ballistic if they trip over a stray sock every once in a while. (I do tidy up sometimes. When Penny makes me.) (All right, so this person needs to be tidier than me.) (That's not hard.) I work at the café and also study occasionally, so it's not like I'm around all the time. They'll have plenty of privacy. I also don't play loud music or the drums or cook anything smelly.

I'm a pretty good flatmate. I could be worse.

I just know things could be much, much worse than they are with Penny and I don't want her to move out. But I can't start that argument again. We've rowed about it a hundred times and the end result stays the same. Penny's leaving for at least six months, and I'm going to be stuck here without her. I mean, I know we have phones and the internet and video chat and all that, but it won't be the same.

Stupid Shepard. Stupid America. Stupid continents.

Why can't she date a British boy? We're not _that _bad. (Just a bit untidy.)

**PENELOPE**

Three weeks. _Three weeks._

I'm leaving for New York in three weeks and Simon hasn't even got a flatmate sorted yet! How has he survived for this long when he's_ so_ utterly hopeless?

If I hadn't already booked tickets and planned the accommodation I'd postpone. Really, I would. At the rate he's going, Simon won't last three hours without me, let alone six months. But I've been looking forward to this trip for _so long_ and I haven't seen Shep since January. I need to go. Plus, to be quite honest, after wrangling with the Embassy for a tourist visa this summer, I never want to do it again. Shep can come here next time. (And stay.) (But we haven't had that conversation yet.)

I've already done an advert for Simon and had it posted in the local paper. I knew he wouldn't get it done and I panic-drafted three or four different versions. Simon Needs a Flatmate 1.0 should be in tonight's classifieds, and if that doesn't yield results, I've got another advert ready to post in a local Facebook group. (Simon's not on Facebook. He says it involves too much writing.)

I picked up a copy of the paper at the newsagent's on the way home, but haven't had chance to look through it yet. There's housework (flatwork?) to be done first, then Shep's calling me on Skype during his lunch break. Surely Simon can manage reading the newspaper when I've done all of the hard work.

I didn't tell him what I put in the advert. But it's too late now. He'll just have to live with it.

He'll have to live without me.

* * *

**WANTED: ONE FLATMATE**

Want to live in central London with all amenities paid for?  
Want to enjoy peace, quiet and excellent company?  
We can't promise you that, but we can promise you:  
1 bedroom, shared bathroom & living space,  
internet, phone line, hot water & electricity.  
Successful applicant will be employed or in full-time study.  
Also neat, tidy and prepared to deal with odd hours.  
Please contact Penny for rent & bills (sorry, amenities aren't actually paid for).  
**Tel: ___________ / Email: pennyfindsaflatmate@PROVIDERUNSPECIFIED  
**

* * *

**  
**

**SIMON**

The advert is borderline offensive. Penny knows that; she wrote it. She's smirking at me over the top of a cup of tea and I hope the look I'm firing back is sufficiently unimpressed.

"You make me sound like a right pillock," I say. "They need to be _neat and tidy_? Honestly, Penny. I'm not that bad. Also, you buggered up the e-mail address."

She has to climb over a stack of three month-old magazines to reach the sofa. Her eyebrows rise as she completes the obstacle course, as though it's proof enough of how much hard work I am.

"It's more about their person, Simon. They need to be neat and tidy in and of themselves. Isn't that what you want?"

I'm in a full-on sulk with the newspaper scrunched up in my lap. Why'd she have to try and make it funny? Now we're going to get all sorts of weirdos applying. And what's with the mention of "odd hours"? I sometimes stay up late playing _Call of Duty_, and I guess if I stay at the café until nine on Saturday that's pretty odd. Most blokes my age don't work at a café on Saturday nights. (I'm not really into partying.) (I'm not really into any situation involving large numbers of other people.)

"You shouldn't have made it funny," I moan. I'm aware I'm being unbearable. It's my other strategy when I want to get Penny to do something and the usual look of helplessness doesn't work. "Read those first two lines out loud, Penny. We're full-on going to get people who think bills and rent are free. This is _London_. The bloody _air_ we breathe is taxable. Only mad people are going to call us - that is one hundred percent what's going to happen."

She crosses her arms and huffs. I out-huff her, just because I can. It's one of the few things I'm definitely good at.

"Plus," I say "You failed to mention one very important thing."

"What?" she says. She looks genuinely confused. "What did I forget?"

No way am I saying it. She's the clever one - top of the class, Queen of Watford - she can figure it out herself.

A moment later: "_Magic_? I could hardly mention magic in the ad, Simon. We really would look loopy."

I roll my eyes. She's magicked my wings off every day this week and I'm supposed to be learning how to do it myself. She figured out this spell using a 90s pop song: _**Flying without wings**_. It's a bit hit and miss, to be honest. I don't think Westlife are that popular anymore. When I do it by myself my wings wiggle a bit, but that's it. Penny gets them to disappear completely. (I don't tell her how good it feels.) (I also don't tell her I tried to fly after she'd cast it on me the first time, just to see how literal the spell was.) (I fell down the stairs.)

I'm worried that my new flatmate will see my wings. And my tail, though that can at least be stuffed down a trouser leg and be excused as an unspecified deformity. But my wings...there's no explaining that. The cosplay excuse would only work once. When I try to cast them away it only works some of the time...and you just know, after a long night on the sofa watching _Peaky Blinders_, the flatmate'll come in at some unreasonably reasonable hour of the morning to make breakfast and there I'll be...two arms, two legs and two red, rubbery wings.

"You should've mentioned the magic thing," I say. "Used a code or something. So only other mages apply."

Penny's still huffing like a champion. "I'll meet them all myself. I'll bloody well interview them, Jonathan Ross-style, if that's what you want. I'll make sure the one that gets through my strict vetting process is made of magic. Happy?"

I shrug. I don't want to look _too_ pleased, even though I'd definitely like her to meet them and not me. She still needs to know how ticked off I am. This is all her fault.

"Simon," she says. I turn my head to look at her. She looks irritated. "This is happening. You accept that, don't you? I'm moving out. This time next week it'll hopefully all be sorted, and we'll know exactly who's moving in. You're going to have to meet them and be nice to them and for Merlin's sake, you'll have to _tidy up _before they get here. Do you understand?"

I nod glumly.

_Penny. Please don't go._

**PENELOPE**

He's so lost and hopeless. I fully expect to get a text message a week into my trip announcing the death of Simon Snow, former Chosen One, maker of sandwiches and an absolutely tragic figure, whichever way you slice it.

It'll be fine. We'll find him somebody half-decent. Somebody who can balance him. There must be one person in the whole of London who can keep him together. I offered the room to Agatha but she's not coming back from California this year as planned. She still wants nothing to do with us or magic or anything remotely _mageish_. (Sometimes, I think she had the right idea.) (I'd never say that out loud.)

Simon defeated the Humdrum. Simon gave himself wings and a tail whilst doing battle with the Humdrum, and now they won't go away. Not properly. They always pop up at inconvenient moments. (We were watching _Titanic_ last night and just when the ship's snapping in half, _wham!_ Red wing: 1. Penny's face: 0.) He lost most of his magic in that fight, but "most" in Simon Snow terms just means he's left with a normal amount, like the rest of us. He still can't use it properly, despite eight years of Watford schooling. There was that moment, when we were facing down the Humdrum, when the Mage tried to steal it from him...he tried to suck it out of his chest. I don't think Simon's really dealt with that part of the fight, yet. I try to talk to him about it but he closes up.

The Mage died. We think the Humdrum killed him. Or the Humdrum's magic. Or _lack _of magic. All right, so we still don't understand_ why_ the Mage died. But he did. My mum's in charge of Watford now, and Simon's got a less alarming amount of magic inside him, and yes, he's winged...but he's also working, studying and becoming vaguely independent. So it all turned out fine, didn't it?

And it's all right if I try to have a bit of life for myself now, isn't it? With a boyfriend and a holiday and a...

A break.

That's all this is. I'll come back and if Simon's truly miserable, I'll move right back in. (That's another conversation Shep and I will have. But not today.)

I mustn't feel guilty. I should feel excited. I mean, we might find someone brilliant - someone Simon really gets on with. Bring him out of his shell a bit, cultivate interests and hobbies in him that aren't directly connected to the television and/or bread.

It's going to be fine. It's going to be great.

Oh, my mobile's ringing. I don't recognise the number.

I grin at Simon. He's looking worried.

"I think we have our first applicant!" I say, standing up. I'd do a little dance but it's so messy in here, I'd only trip over.


	2. The Applicant

**SIMON**

No, no, no and no.

Stanley, you are _not_ moving in with me.

I wait until he's out the door before I explode at Penny. (In the old days I would've gone _off_ and probably blown up the flat. At least that would solve my current problem.) (No flat, no new flatmate. Sorted.)

“A _magician_? Penny, you are joking, right? Honestly – he tried to pull a pigeon out of his hat! A pigeon, that he brought in from outside! London pigeons don't fuck about, Penny. Our flat probably has a hundred different diseases nobody knows the names of yet. A magician, Penny! A professional magician!”

She's looking at me as if _I'm_ the unreasonable one. I bet she thinks she's clever. _Simon, you did say you want to live with someone magical! _

“I didn't know, all right?” she says, crossing his name off the list with such determination that her pen goes through the paper. There's only one name left. She got eight calls last night, only four of which progressed to 'the interview stage', as she called it, and none of which have so far delivered anything but misery.

She hates me. That's my current train of thought. She's moving out and abandoning me to the _general public_ because she's sick of me and wants to make sure I know it. Well, message received, Penelope Bunce – loud and bloody clear!

A _professional magician_. I mean...

“There's still one left,” she's saying, pulling up her socks. “Maybe he'll be the one.”

I snort and lean over her to look at the last remaining name. “Yes, with a name like _Tyrannus Basilton_ he just _screams_ well-adjusted flatmate material, doesn't he? No, Penny, he's going to be another collector of antique doll heads like Marvin or, or – an acrobat!”

“Simon, you're being hysterical.”

“You would be, too, if you had to live with these people.”

“You _don't_ have to live with them. None of them passed the interview stage.”

I sigh dramatically, letting the spoon drop into my bowl of Frosties. I've got to go work for a bit tonight (seven 'til ten, the people of Greenwich really like nighttime sandwiches) but I'm not in the mood. I'm not in the mood for _bread_. That's what Penny has driven me to. Might as well end it all right now. She's been here all afternoon interviewing Tammy, Marvin and Stanley. I didn't meet Tammy but Penny said she's not magic and she also came waltzing in with a pug under her arm, which is an automatic no. Our landlord's dead strict about the no pet rule. (Do I technically get classed as a pet now that I've got a tail? Something to consider.)

“Tyrannus Basilton” is going to be a massive waste of time.

I ask her to check her phone again, and her e-mails, in case one miraculously got through. Nothing. This bloke's supposed to arrive in ten minutes – so on London time we'll be waiting another hour – and after that interview ends in flames, we'll be back to square one.

“Don't worry Simon. I've still got the Facebook post lined up and ready to go. We'll find someone.”

I scowl and stuff my face with Frosties. I can't even taste the sugar, that's how unhappy I am.

**PENELOPE**

All right, so things haven't gone to plan so far, but there's no need to panic. This is one of Simon's fatal personality flaws - if he feels even slightly out of control in a situation, he goes bananas.

Tyrannus Basilton sounded very posh on the phone. (I don't even think he used any contractions.) On the one hand that's concerning because it's the posh customers Simon always moans about when he gets home from work. Apparently they leave tables in a right state and click their fingers in his face to get his attention. On the other hand, it also gives me hope that he has a bit of money and maybe fewer doll heads in his attic than Marvin. He did say on the phone that he has a job, and he's going to be starting a uni course in September. That sounds promising. And he's our age, which is good, because it means he can socialise with Simon occasionally and get him out of the flat.

I know, I know, I'm asking for too much. But I want this to go well. (Today was a disaster of epic proportions. Doll heads? Why, Marvin?) Even if he's not the one, it might at least go semi-normally and give us a bit of hope going into tomorrow.

I've got my finger hovering over the 'Post' button on Facebook.

As soon as “Mr Basilton” leaves I'll press it. Before Simon starts ranting again.

**BAZ**

I'm standing outside a chip shop in the pouring rain, looking up at white-framed windows. I'm five minutes early for my appointment – or _interview_, as the girl on the phone put it – and despite the weather, I can't force myself to ring the buzzer ahead of time. That might make me seem too eager. (I'm desperate. But they don't need to know that right off the bat.)

The street seems about the same as every other one I've walked down since getting off the tube. I don't spend much time in Greenwich. Father took me to a tea party in Chelsea once, when I was younger, but generally kept me out of central London. I've spied the Cutty Sark and loitered briefly beside a pleasant-ish stretch of the Thames. It doesn't seem so bad here.

Two minutes until I can ring the buzzer and meet this Penelope Bunce character. On the phone she said I'd be meeting her flatmate too, the one I'd be living with. She said “sorry for the mess” about fifty times so I'm mentally preparing myself for a pig sty.

My room at home is pristine, despite the gargoyles. (They're not a big fan of mess. If I so much as drop a sock on the floor they get confrontational.) I wouldn't be leaving it at all if I had a choice. But I don't.

Father made it quite clear that it's high time I move out. I agreed.

It's either that or one of us is going to kill the other.

One day I might look back and find some sort of humour in it. That me being gay is fine and dandy and something he can live with, but me being a secret vampire most certainly is not. Not anymore. He's put up with it for years, and I suppose he did what he could, but in the end we were like two cheese graters, scraping together. A pair of magnets that can only repel. And so, _th__is_ is what sees me moved out of the house. He said I could keep my allowance and put it towards rent, as though it was supposed to make me feel better.

I'm staying with Fiona at the moment. She's a nightmare. She's a vampire hunter and thinks it's darkly hilarious that I'm sleeping on her sofa, right under everyone's noses.

Nobody knows I'm a vampire, except for my family.

I'm a mage, too, and sometimes I have to remind myself of that. I wasn't born this way. I wasn't given a choice. Father understands that vampirism was forced upon me and ignores it like it's an oozing pimple, or something else that's eventually going to go away.

Well, we _are_ making me go away, at long last. To London, of all places. The shame of it all.

I press the buzzer. An overly chirpy female voice invites me in. I recognise her from the phone: Penelope Bunce. I know who she is, of course. I wasn't allowed to go to Watford (Father kept me at home with a line of long-suffering tutors) but I know she was top of the class, last year. The class I would have been in.

I wonder when she'll broach the topic of magic. Surely it'll come spilling out of her. We Pitches know all about Bunces and their tendency to show-off. (I didn't give her my surname. I don't need sanctimonious Bunce judgment before I've even _seen_ the damn flat.)

I'm invited, so in I go.

At least I wouldn't actually be living with a Bunce. Whoever her flatmate is possibly couldn't be worse than that.

**PENELOPE**

He's taller than he sounded on the phone. (That makes no sense.)

He's pale, too. Maybe he's nervous. I'm nervous now.

“Want a cup of tea?”

He jerks his head at me in what I interpret as a nod.

“Please, come in. You can hang your coat on that peg, there. The living room's just through here.”

_Simon, _ please _make an effort._

I trip over a shoe and squeak.

**SIMON**

He's tall.

Stupid hair. Stupid fancy shirt. (_Buttons_? On a Monday night?)

Bet he's got a brand new smartphone and his own parking space and three Jaguars and nineteen bathrooms and all sorts of fancy face creams he rubs into his skin at night.

He looks like James Bond if James Bond fell into a pit of goths.

He looks like one of those Greek statues that's been left out in the sun until it's all bleached and then someone dresses it in stuff from the men's section at M&S. No, nicer than that. _Topman_.

He looks like a Tory banker who only goes on holiday to Scotland because sunny places are too _middle class_.

He looks...well, he looks pretty fit, actually. But I'm not going to say _that_ to him, am I?

“Hello,” he says, in his perfect, posh voice. He even _sounds_ expensive.

“Hello,” I say back. I feel ugly. Why do I feel ugly? This is so _stupid_.

I wish he'd sit down. I cleared a space on the sofa and everything. He's like an angry-faced Big Ben, standing over me and looming like I'm nothing. (I am nothing. But he shouldn't be able to tell just by _looking_ at me.)

“I'm Simon,” I shout. "Simon Snow." Why am I shouting?

He sneers at me and sits down next to me and looks at me and sneers at me. Did I already say that, about the sneering? And that he's next to me? I can see his teeth. They're so white. I bet he has a good dentist. I bet he goes to a private practice and everything. No NHS waiting list for _Mr Basilton_.

He doesn't want to live here. Why is he here?

I mean.

He's a whole lot more than I am.

**BAZ**

_Simon Snow._

I'm aware of who the Chosen One is. I lived in a mansion in Hampshire, not under a rock, thank you very much, and most of the time I was able to maintain a sense of what was going on in the world. (Apart from the time last year when Father tried to cajole me into a coffin in the cellar. _A few__ weeks ought to do it, Basil. I'll tell the club you're in Sweden on a holistic juice fast retreat._) (He thought we could starve the vampirism out of me, but he would really have only succeeded in starving me. I politely declined.) (Reason number eighty-six to move out, Basilton.)

I heard stories of Simon Snow and his genocidal magical explosions through my cousin, Dev, and the few friends of his that filtered through our house in the summer. By all accounts he was a dreadful student and an even worse Chosen One, succeeding in beating the Insidious Humdrum through dumb luck rather than any learned skill. Still, he did it, and I suppose the World of Mages is a better place these days. There's no Mage in it, for a start.

My Father was so happy on the day he died. _“Huzzah for House Pitch!”_ he said, clapping me on my back. That's probably the last time he looked at me with anything other than vague disappointment. I didn't remind him that he isn't a Pitch.

No matter. I'm here now, staring into the eyes of the Chosen One, trying not to let disgust show too plainly on my face as I look around at the mess. (It's a lot. There are patches of cleanliness here and there where I can only assume Bunce battled valiantly. I need to react to the filth in stages in order to preserve my sanity.)

Snow appears to be just as disgusted to see me as I am to observe his living conditions.

He can't know who I am. He _shouldn't_ be able to tell I'm a vampire. (I ate on the way here. Fine London cuisine: doner kebab and a pigeon that looked slightly less dirty than its companions).

Dev didn't mention that he was reasonably good looking. (_Very _good looking.) (Shutup, Basil.)

Bunce is back with tea and it gives me something to do with my hands, other than rub them along my trousers.

“Thank you,” I say, and I see Snow stiffen beside me.

“So, Tyrannus,” she says, sliding into a shabby armchair across from the sofa.

“Baz,” I say immediately.

“Baz,” she smiles. “Would you like to see the room?”

**SIMON**

Baz? _Baz_?

He must be posh. He shortens his _surname_ into a nickname. What a tosser.

I bet he played rugby and was on the rowing team and learnt Latin without any problems at all at _his_ school. Eton. Is that the posh place all the Prime Ministers go to? That's where he went. Bet you anything. Bet you my wings and my wand.

_Baz_. Ha. Bet you anything he'll be having a right laugh about this later with his mates at the croquet club, or whatever the fuck that game's called where you whack balls through metal hoops. He's probably just here on a dare. Lord of the manor, slumming with the normals.

I hope Penny's figured him out already. So he can go.

Stupid Baz and his stupid name and his stupid perfect hair.

**PENELOPE**

I think Baz likes the flat. I'm not sure he likes Simon. (He looks like he might eat him.)

He's starting a degree at the University of Greenwich this year, so this place would be perfect for him. He's got a job in a bookshop and there's a branch by the tube station, so he could transfer there.

He's ideal. Can't Simon see that? Why's he looking like he wants to murder him?

Simon could do _much_ worse than Baz.

Now we just need to find out, in a subtle fashion, whether he's magic or not.

**BAZ**

The bedroom is pleasant. Bunce has kept it in a respectable, if not immaculate, state. There's a window looking out over rooftops. I can see myself sitting there in a chair, reading a book. It's not as spacious as my room at home, but there's a double bed and wardrobe. Space for a chest of drawers and a desk.

It could be worse. That's a surprise to me, after seeing the living room. I dread to think what manner of things I'll find growing in the kitchen. And the bathroom...it could certainly do with a clean, let's put it that way.

It would be a lot of work, living here. I don't like the way Snow's looking at me. If he finds out I'm a vampire...well, he can't be all_ that_ bright, Chosen One thing aside. That jumper's clearly on backwards and when I came in he was frantically thumbing through yesterday's TV guide looking for clues about tonight's _Sherlock_ repeat. He's no Sherlock (or Mycroft, clearly the superior mind), so I might be able to get away with it.

And I'd be out. Away and free from Father and his frown. Living on an allowance, I'll admit, but that's only until I find a better paying job. (Or win the lottery. I can be one of _those_ people now, the ones that buy lottery tickets and check them religiously every week.)

If Snow will have me, I think I'll talk to Bunce about the room. She's blathering on about rent and internet and electricity and gas but that sort of thing doesn't interest me. Fiona can help make sense of it later. She'll have to know where I go, of course.

And Snow will find out what my surname is when I sign the lease agreement. (_If_ I sign it. Bunce is looking at me like I'm a target for interrogation, so maybe she won't let me have the room).

Would he allow me to move in, if he knew? We can always ignore each other and stew in uncomfortable silence. I've had years of practice with my tutors. I'm an expert in not communicating effectively.

We're back in the living room now and Bunce appears to have chattered herself out. She's looking at Simon hopefully and I realise I am, too. Partly because I think I actually want to live here, and partly because if they say I can't I'll have to go through the entire soul-destroying rigmarole of looking for a place to live again, and it was really rather exhausting.

“Simon?” she asks, perched on the edge of a coffee table. “Want to ask Baz anything?”

**SIMON**

“What're your thoughts on Brexit?”

It's the first thing out of my mouth. I don't even know why that would be on my mind; Penny's tried to explain it to me a million times, and I still don't really see why it's a thing. Still, the words are there, and this “Baz” (if that's even his name – he does look proper dodgy) is looking at me like I'm something nasty he just stepped in on the street.

“Do you even know what that means?” he drawls. His voice is deeper than mine. Penny said he's the same age as us but he looks older. He looks like a man.

Fuck him.

“Yeah. Obviously. And d'you have a problem with living over a chippy?”

His nose scrunches up, just for a second.

“No, Snow, I do not. I would imagine it's rather convenient.”

“Where do you work?”

“In a bookshop.”

“Who's your favourite band?”

He rolls his eyes. “Who's your favourite composer?”

I don't know why he thinks that's important, to be quite honest.

“I don't really get up in the mornings, sometimes. That bother you?”

“Not in the slightest. You may eat your children's cereal in the afternoons for all I care, Snow.”

_Snow_? Who does he think he is, calling me by my name? Just because he wants people to go around calling him by his surname, doesn't mean he can call _me_ by _my_ surname.

I mean. Who _is_ he?

He's not a professional magician. I'll give him that.

But he _can't_ move in here.

**PENELOPE**

Simon is shaking his head. Does he even realise he's doing it?

I start to panic. I'm so tired and today was a monstrous waste of time.

Why can't he just _try_ for a change?

**BAZ**

Bunce asks me a question about magic that's so thinly veiled it might as well be transparent. She actually asks me if I've _ever pulled a pigeon out of a hat during a flat viewing_. If I weren't desperate (and, I admit, sadistically intrigued) I'd walk out right now.

But instead I slide my wand out of my sleeve.

**PENELOPE**

Oh! Oh, yes! Oh, _hurray_!

He's perfect! Simon, can't you see that we won't find a better option than this? He's polite and well-dressed and only slightly condescending. There's a whole world full of Stanleys and Marvins out there, Simon, but there might only be one Baz.

Would it be unethical of me to spell him to say yes?

**SIMON**

Oh, good.

The posh one is a mage.

I've never seen him at Watford. (I'd remember those eyes. And his clothes. And his face.)

Great. Bloody _great_. Penny's looking at him like he just parted the fucking Thames.

Maybe if he moves in and makes my life miserable she'll feel sorry for me and come back. Yeah, maybe that's the way to play this. She can't expect us to get along. We're too different. He's probably sitting there thinking about how chavvy I am. But I could ignore him? I mean, I've got stuff going on. I lead a busy life. (Ha.) We won't even have to mix. He can go his way, have brunch with the lads in Kensington or whatever people like him do, and I can stay here and work at the café.

That'd be all right.

I mean, at least we've met him and he hasn't pulled any doll heads out of his bag yet. That's better than starting all over again, right? I can just ignore him and he can scowl at everything, and eventually one of us will tidy up and we'll go our separate ways.

That'd be fine for a bit. Six months, until Penny gets back.

_Right_?

I think I'll start nodding now.

**BAZ**

Penelope Bunce offers me her room, there and then.

Three weeks and I can move out of my Father's house and into this dingy, alarmingly unhygienic cesspit of a flat. With this boy, and his astute lack of manners.

Snow stares holes through me as I put on my coat and smile at his outgoing flatmate, promising to be in touch. I can do this when I try, be charming and polite. As soon as I'm out the door my face will settle back into its usual tableau of grim. (I'm a vampire. It's part of the aesthetic.)

That my life has come to this distresses me.

Still, I don't feel _too_ devastated by the result. I'm not sure why that is. Perhaps it's because a semblance of freedom might actually be mine. Perhaps it's because the flat is quite nice, underneath the grime, and once habitable it could even be _comfortable_.

Maybe it's because Simon Snow is strangely magnetic and part of me wants to torture him verbally until he begs for another consonant. (I'm quite sure he's never watched Countdown in his life.) (He probably thinks Europe is a consonant.)

I walk out into the rain and pull up my hood. It's a long way back on the tube to Fiona's flat.

I catch myself as I go down the steps to the station.

I'm _humming_.

Crowley, Baz, you _are_ a mess.


	3. The Arrival

**PENELOPE**

My last day in the flat has arrived. Finally. I've been trying not to burst into tears all morning.

Baz is moving in. I'm moving out.

I technically still have one night left on the lease, but I'm staying in a hotel near Heathrow tonight. The only thing worse than being inside Heathrow airport is attempting to travel to it during rush hour. So I've got a twin room booked in the Ibis, and after Baz has got the last of his boxes upstairs, I'll be off with my suitcase and a head full of worries about whether I'm doing the right thing.

Simon has not helped at all. He hasn't moved an inch from his spot on the sofa. I heard one episode of _New Girl_ end and I thought he might gather himself into an upright position, but then it bled right into the next one.

Baz doesn't have a lot of stuff. A few boxes of books, three suitcases of clothes and a violin. He says his aunt dropped him off a few streets away and he had to make four trips to get it all to the doorstep. I told him it's a miracle none of it got nicked. (I love London but most people seem to live by the five-second rule, whereby if it's sitting on the pavement for five seconds, it's fair game.) Baz says he can move quite quickly when he wants to, and he certainly seems to be going up and down the stairs at a rate of knots.

I saw his name on the lease. He popped in last week to meet the landlord and sign paperwork. Simon complained that his handwriting was illegible, but there was no mistaking that surname. _T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch_.

I know who the Pitches are. Everyone does. Natasha Grimm-Pitch was headmistress of Watford before the Mage, and in my opinion, a bit of a legend. She died when vampires attacked the school. (We still don't know why. The prevailing theory is that they were hungry.) It's common knowledge she had a son, but he didn't arrive at Watford when he was supposed to. He would've been in our year. We all assumed he was dead or sent off to boarding school. (Pitches are _so_ the boarding school type.)

And now he's in the room next to me, hanging a shocking number of floral shirts in my wardrobe. _His_ wardrobe.

I haven't told my mum yet. I'm not sure if I should. She'd only be worried about Simon, and I'm worried enough. I have to assume that Baz knows who Simon is...and I _know_ I should sit Simon down and help him decipher Baz's signature. But his vendetta against posh people is already a bit much, and I don't want them to start fighting before he's even moved in.

The Mage hated the old families. Simon's become a lot more open-minded since leaving school, but growing up he was a bit, well..._brainwashed,_ at times. He might not react well to living with a Pitch.

Let's just see how things go, and if needs be, I can tell Simon. That's fair, isn't it? Give Baz a chance to show he's not a disaster. (I don't _think_ he's a disaster.) (He plays violin, how bad can he be?) (They've already rowed about the violin.)

I wipe sweat from my forehead and push Simon's feet off the sofa. He grunts at me.

“Are you really not going to help? It's sad that no one's here with him.”

He grunts again.

Honestly.

**SIMON**

Penny's looking at me like I'm a lost cause. (I am.) It's not my fault Baz has no friends and family to help him shift his fancy stuff about.

Not. My. Problem.

I was awful to him earlier. Like, I was aware of it happening but couldn't stop myself. He took two steps into the living room, violin case under one arm, and I snapped at him about playing it in the flat. I think my exact words were, _“Not even over my dead body, you pasty-faced twat.” _ He said he'll only play it when I'm at work, which is fine, but he said it with this look on his face that made it clear what he thinks of my café job. He was dead sarcastic as well, asking what instrument I played.

Fucking Baz. Penny's being so nice to him. She keeps saying how _polite_ and _charming_ he is, like I'm supposed to see it too. All I see is expensive jeans and a shiny watch and whatever it is he uses in his hair to slick it back like that. (It looked better the other night, when it was in his face.)

I'm staying on the sofa. He's an adult, he can unpack by himself. He probably doesn't want my grubby hands all over his nice, expensive stuff.

I really want to go downstairs for chips but he'd probably judge me for that, too. _Too greasy, Snow. Have you ever met a vegetable that wasn't a potato_?

I'm also worried that if I stand up my wings will pop.

Penny spelled them off with her Westlife song, and she's also given me an angel spell to try, plus a Star Wars one she's used before. She says she'll send me more as she thinks of them. But I know I won't be any good at it.

If I stay here, very still, maybe Baz will forget he lives with me.

**BAZ**

Fiona doesn't have the exact address of my new flat. She keeps texting me to say she's circling the streets, looking for clues. My boxes are off the curb, so she'd have to start breaking and entering to really narrow it down, and I'm not sure she's motivated enough for a mass crime spree.

When I told her who I'll be living with, she was livid. She threatened to tell Father. (He_ probably _wouldn't care, but you never know. It'd be just like him to decide I'm not allowed to escape the nest, after all.) I had to beg her not to. It was all very embarrassing.

Now she's of a mind that living with Simon Snow could be _useful_. I can keep her informed of the Chosen One's whereabouts and activities, and she can become intimately more familiar with Greenwich's many pubs.

She's quite pleased that the flat's in Greenwich. That's as specific as I've been. She says there's little vampire activity here, so I should be able to keep a low profile and not be recruited into any of the London gangs. (She says the nearest gang calls itself the Abdominal Ones, as it was founded in the days of the Old Royal Naval College.) (I mean, really. Nobody back then thought “Naval” was possibly related to the _Navy_? Their minds immediately went to body parts?)

I promised not to join any vampire cults.

Snow hasn't moved off the sofa. The girl on the screen is far too chirpy; in combination with today's bright sun and the fact I've only drained a single scrawny squirrel in the past twenty-four hours, my head is pounding. I need blood and it's not clear when I might be able to slip away to procure some.

Bunce is showing me around again. I think she wants me to appreciate how much tidier it is. I ask her what cleaning spells she used, and she confesses to throwing out a _ **Sight for sore eyes** _ in the kitchen, but otherwise she tidied everything up by herself.

“Simon did do his own room,” she says. “He hates it when I pick up his pants.”

Something comes flying at us from the direction of the sofa.

“Aren't you going to come and see me off, Simon? My taxi's outside.” Her bags are in the stairwell, causing a tripping hazard.

Snow scrapes himself off the sofa and gives her a sloppy hug. As he brushes past me, his sleeve catching mine, I get a whiff of something buttery and fatty. It smells like cinema popcorn, but I'm aware that he's too bone idle to have made any. It coats the back of my tongue. To my horror, I feel my fangs sliding into place. Covering my mouth, I quickly move into the kitchen, pretending to be suddenly very invested in the tea chest I stole from Daphne.

Simon Snow. Blood. _ No _.

I will myself a fraction of self-control. Bunce has been all over me on the two occasions we've met previously, and I haven't let myself go like this. She calls her goodbyes to me from the doorway – I think I hear a _ good luck! _ thrown in there, too _ – _and I wave at her limply without turning around.

I breathe deeply, recalling all of the things Fiona has told me (she knows a lot about vampires – she's killed enough of them). My mouth is thick with saliva and I try to think about anything, anything else but blood. I need to hunt, but it's the middle of the day in the capital city, and dark is hours away.

Crowley, this is bad.

I hear the door slam and expect to see Snow stomping back to the sofa. He doesn't. He's gone outside with Bunce.

Small mercies.

**PENELOPE**

I hold him close, I hold him tight.

The taxi driver's looking at me like I'm batty.

I feel like a mother seeing her son off to war. But it's not war, is it? The war is over. Simon's here, dressed (if we go by a loose definition of the word), and largely intact. Yes, he's a little droopy round the edges. He's sad and his hair's a mess and I don't think he's showered for a few days.

But he's fine.

He's going to be _ fine. _

I pull him in for one last hug.

“Have a good trip,” he says sullenly. “You'll text me, yeah?”

“Simon Snow, I'll be Skyping you from the airport,” I laugh. “Make sure your phone's charged.”

He nods. I pick up my bags as the taxi driver opens the boot.

All right, then. Just one more hug.

**SIMON**

I hope Penny remembers me. She might go off and have too much fun without me sulking at her from across the room. She'll pop up on my messenger app in a couple of years, sounding all American, asking _how's it goin pal_? (Do Americans say pal?)

I came all the way down to the street so I might as well get some chips before going back up. I don't have a load of money but there's a crumpled fiver in my pocket, so I can get a cone and a can of pop and still have some change for tomorrow.

Or I could get a large bag and see if Baz wants to share.

I mean, it wouldn't be a big deal. He probably hasn't eaten yet and I'm already down here, so.

I bet he's the mushy pea type. Well, I'm not. Curry sauce all the way.

**BAZ**

Snow calls to me from the living room. I'm sitting on the edge of Bunce's bed (my bed) with my head between my knees. I've never been on a boat but I imagine this is what seasickness feels like. My shirts are hanging in the wardrobe, arranged from dark to light, and my books are stacked up in a corner. I'll think about putting up some shelves in here, when I've stopped thinking about blood.

I can't be sure, but I think Snow calls me _Badminton_.

It's not a good idea to go in there. My fangs have gone back to wherever it is they come from, but I'm hungry and it's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. I know about Simon Snow. I know what he's likely to do to a vampire, courtesy of the Mage's careful upbringing.

He's still calling. Shouting, really. Nobody lives above us (_us_) but the landlord has a room behind the chip shop, and he mentioned having a young daughter. I'd hate for Snow's caterwauling to be the reason she's woken on this fine Tuesday afternoon.

I walk into the living room. Snow has already assumed the position on the sofa (I'm positive there's a Snow-shaped groove there when he moves, but I'm yet to glimpse it), an open bag of chips in his lap. They smell delicious. Hunger for food mixes with hunger for blood and overall, I'm a mess.

“Want a chip?” he asks, sticking his chin out at me. He's got a mole on his neck I can't help but notice. “Sorrybouttheviolin.”

It comes out in a rush, a mush of words. I feel my eyebrow reach dizzying new heights.

“What was that, Snow?”

He's a bit red-faced, now. (It's delightful.) (Stop. It.)

“I'm sorry about the violin,” he manages, dipping a chip in curry sauce. He shuffles the bag along his legs. There are a lot of chips here, but I can't assume he bought them to share. From what I've seen so far, this could very possibly be an average weeknight snack for him. “You can play it. Y'know, in the flat.”

I'm going to have to sit next to him on the sofa in order to reach the chips.

“I don't have to. But thank you.”

He must see the pained look on my face (I'm trying not to think about ripping his throat out), because he's scowling. He gets up, shoves the chips at me, and shuffles off into the kitchen.

“I'll get you a plate.”

I risk a glance at the sofa. There's undoubtedly a Snow-shaped dip in the cushions. He returns, thrusts a plate at me and flops back down. For a moment I think I see one of the cushions twitching.

It would not be at all surprising to learn that something is living inside the sofa. It'd be about right, given the general ambience of the flat.

I pull a handful of chips onto my plate, then dump the bag back into his lap. I perch in the chair across from the sofa and focus on shovelling my mouth as full of salt and potato as possible. He obviously thinks I'm a snob so he can't expect me to speak with my mouth full. One hand covers my teeth as I chew; my fangs have made an appearance again. I turn toward the television and hope he isn't watching me.

**SIMON**

The telly's light is flickering on Baz's face. (He even looks good in profile.) He's covering his mouth – is that a weird posh person thing? Maybe they don't like commoners to see them eat.

At least he took some chips. Even though he's too fancy to eat straight from the bag.

Does he want some of the curry sauce? Maybe I should ask.

I wouldn't be bothering at all but I feel bad about earlier. About the violin, yeah, but also because I didn't help. He clearly didn't want to sit by me just now, and that's fine. I get it. Food heals all though, doesn't it? So he can eat some chips and maybe this first night won't be awful.

Then I've made an effort, haven't I?

**BAZ**

I'm coping. It's easier from here; the smell of the chips isn't exactly overpowering the scent of his blood, but it goes some way toward masking it. He leans awkwardly across a cluttered coffee table and instructs me on which chip to dip in the curry sauce.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. They're good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes. Very good. Thank you.”

“S'all right. Do you like mushy peas?”

“Can't stand the stuff.”

“Me neither.”

I love curry sauce. At home it's a guilty pleasure. Father doesn't like anything in his kitchen that wasn't sourced from a Michelin-starred kitchen.

I had Snow down as a mushy peas sort of person, but I'm pleasantly surprised to learn the dislike is mutual.

We eat without speaking. I don't dare say a word, with my mouth full of fangs. He settles back and this time I'm_ certain_ I see the cushions twitch. But when I look across I see nothing but Snow's frown.

**SIMON**

My tail's going to break free of its magical prison. It won't stay still.

For fuck's sake.

I can't believe it. On the _first night_.

He's still not looking at me. Not really. Maybe he won't notice.

Maybe I just need a really good distraction.

“Ever seen _Peaky Blinders_?”

**BAZ**

He puts on an episode of his favourite programme. It feels about ninety minutes long, which in my mind makes it more of a film than an episode. Still, it's entertaining.

He keeps looking over to gauge my reaction to his favourite character. I try to smile and grimace as appropriate. It's admittedly quite good, but I'm focused on keeping my fangs inside my skull and not out on display in the living room. We've finished eating and they've slid back in for now.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Snow wriggling on the sofa. He's as restless as I am.

It takes him hours to fall asleep.

I watch him go, glancing over occasionally, marking the slow slide of his eyelids. His hands move from his chest to hang at his sides. One foot slips off the sofa. The chip wrapper is on the floor, leftover curry sauce coagulating near a discarded shoe.

It's getting dark outside. It's not ideal (I like to hunt in the dead of night, just to further support the vampire aesthetic) but I can't wait any longer. I stand, making space for my plate on the table, and slip out through the front door.

I'm good at sneaking. I can be quiet. I'm confident I'll be back before he wakes. I've done this a thousand times at home, when Vera's nodding off in an armchair by the fire.

A couple of squirrels would do. I'd take another pigeon, if it came to that.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to look at popcorn again.

**SIMON**

I'm tired.

I'll just sleep here. Baz won't mind. He probably already expects it of me.

He liked the chips.

I can hear him moving about. Was that the front door? I don't know what the time is, but it's getting dark outside. It's not safe out there for someone like him. A mugger'll take one look at him and think it's Christmas Day.

Maybe I should go after him. Is this what Penny was hoping for when she put “odd hours” in the ad?

I won't go. Maybe he just wanted some air. All that lovely, smoggy air. Maybe he's already sick of being here.

I reach over to change programmes. We watched the first three episodes but I'll watch something else, so he can pick up where we left off. If he wants to.

I want to watch something funny. I reach for my drink.

My wings pop and I fall off the sofa, smacking my nose on a shoe and spilling the last of the sauce.

Fuck. Guess I'll sleep in my bed, then.

I can't remember the name of that Westlife song. Brilliant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to all the mushy peas fans out there. Also, I'm a British person living abroad and I really, really miss home, so this story's probably going to be extra British to make me feel better. Thanks to everyone who's reading, I really appreciate it. :)


	4. The Appetiser

**BAZ**

It's past five o' clock and the security guard inside the National Gallery's front door is staring me down. He wants me to leave. I know they're open until six on Saturdays, and it's raining outside, so I don't feel too inclined to rush.

Still, I've been here hours. I should go. London must have other delights.

I worked the morning shift at the bookshop (they transferred me to the Greenwich branch; it's been fine so far) and I got off at two. I took the Tube to Charing Cross and dithered in Trafalgar Square, eyeing pigeons like a maniac, before slipping inside the gallery.

I'm avoiding Snow. I have to. He smells like something I want to eat.

I _am_ getting things under control. Last night was nowhere near as bad as Monday, and I'm confident it will become easier. I've gone this long in life without biting another person, and I don't plan to start now.

Snow knows I'm avoiding him. I caught the scent of his magic this morning, as he was banging about in the kitchen getting ready for work. It smells like smoke. I hid in the bathroom until he left. I haven't seen him _do_ any magic yet, just clumsily knock into assorted pieces of furniture and eat whatever happens to fall within his line of sight. He works at a café around the corner from our flat – Death By Sandwich, which seems apt for him – and the owner runs another branch somewhere else in central London. He's been there this afternoon, helping out. Apparently he's an in-demand sandwich-maker, which I didn't realise was a thing. He grunted at me this morning to let me know he would be gone all day.

Thinking about sandwiches is making me hungry. I went out in the early hours of this morning and gorged on three fat rats in the alley behind the chip shop, so I'm doing well for blood. Snow's aware of my late night trips but hasn't said anything about it. There's bound to be an argument on the horizon.

How do I tell him what I am?

I'm getting settled. I'm unpacked. My books are arranged in alphabetical order.

I can't mess it all up for the sake of being honest.

**SIMON**

Baz is avoiding me. He's hardly been at the flat this week, and I know his shifts at the bookshop aren't that long. I've read the rota he stuck on the fridge with a daffodil magnet. (Penny left a lot of stuff behind, it turns out. It's like she didn't want me to forget she was once here.) His uni course doesn't start 'til the week after next, either. So unless he's got loads of friends he hasn't mentioned, he's avoiding me.

And what's with the sneaking out at night?

Maybe he's got a secret girlfriend. (Bet she's gorgeous.) (But in an I-only-want-to-see-you-at-night kind of way?)

Anyway, if that's the game he wants to play, then it's fine. My boss offered me an extra shift at his other place – Tortured Bread Artist – and I said yes, because what's the alternative? Lying on the sofa while my moody flatmate hides in his room?

Penny always wanted me to get off the sofa, and I guess she's finally managed it. I should text her and let her know: _Turns out all you needed to do was find a miserable git for me to live with!_

She's been sending me messages and pictures from New York. Statue of Liberty and Fifth Avenue and like, so many bloody selfies I stopped counting. It looks like she's having loads of fun.

She asked how me and Baz are getting on and I didn't reply.

**BAZ**

I wander around Leicester Square because I've never seen it before, entertaining the idea of buying a ticket to a performance and passing the evening in darkness. (Do theatres have popcorn or is it too noisy?) Father sent me my allowance for the month, and once my half of the rent is removed (obscene, but it _is_ London) I have plenty left over for amusements. I changed the password to my online banking so he won't be able to keep track of me, unless he suddenly becomes a master hacker. (AppleSnow97 isn't likely to spring to mind, is it?)

I'm more hungry than bored. I do quite fancy a sandwich now, so I wind down a couple of grey side streets until I find illuminated windows and a promising sign. Eating in public is difficult, but if there's a corner to lurk in and it's not too busy, I can manage.

The name of this café is Tortured Bread Artist. If the word “hipster” were ever to enter my vocabulary, it would be the first word I used to describe this particular establishment. Still, the rain's pouring now, it's getting late, and I'm hungry enough to push the door open and slide onto a wooden bench. The shop is fairly tasteful inside, although I can see that food isn't served on actual plates, but on whatever pieces of driftwood the chef presumably salvaged from the bottom of the Thames.

I should leave and find somewhere with plates (for the sake of decency, if nothing else), but the menu looks interesting and I need a break from the weather. The sandwiches and salads all have delightfully droll names such as _Cheese and Beefhoven _and _The Dosteakevsky. _Puns have been known to make me physically sick in the past, but I appreciate the effort. I wonder if they take suggestions.

**SIMON**

Wait. What? Is that...?

Baz. He just walked in and sat down in the corner.

His hair's been flattened by the rain. He should get an umbrella.

What is he...? I mean. Is he _following_ me?

No, that's stupid. He doesn't know I'm here. I never told him the name of this place.

Still...if he thinks I'm going to _wait_ on him. I mean. It's my _job_ but it's _Baz_ and he clearly wants nothing to do with me.

My manager's staring. I better go over.

If he thinks he can be like that bloke with the bowler hat from this morning, bossing me around like he's the king of England, he can bloody well think again.

**BAZ**

The waiter (do hipsters employ that term?) grunts at me and I look up to see a spill of curls and blue eyes, staring down into mine.

Snow.

_Shit_.

“Hello,” I say, remaining calm.

Snow is most certainly _not_ remaining calm.

“All right?” he splutters, snatching away my menu. “Just thought you'd pop in for a sandwich and a good laugh, did you?”

I run my hand over my face. I'm aware I'm in a state of dishevellment after getting caught in the downpour. “I needed to get out of the rain, if you must know. I saw the sign and thought this would do. I had no idea you'd be in here, I assure you.”

I say it sincerely and he does manage to calm himself down. On the table next to me, a salt shaker suddenly tumbles over and smashes to the tiled floor. I watch as Snow turns red and barks at somebody behind the counter to fetch a dustpan and brush.

“Sorry,” he says, reaching a hand into his hair, then finding his pen is knotted up in his curls. “Fuck's sake. Want anything?”

My voice comes out sounding thin. I don't know why I would be nervous. It's only a sandwich. The various smells in here are blocking me from his blood, and I definitely do not feel like pouncing on him. (Well...) (No. You. Don't.)

“The steak sandwich, please. As rare as you'd make it.” I admire the puns but that doesn't mean I need to lower myself to saying one out loud.

“Anything to drink?”

“Do you have earl grey?”

“Yeah. Milk and sugar?”

“Neither, thank you.”

“All right. It'll be out in a bit.”

He stomps off, banging his hip on the corner of the table, then returns sheepishly a minute later to clean up the salt. He doesn't make eye contact.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to look. A message from Fiona: _“Settling in, Basil?”_

When I look up, I catch Snow staring at me. The salt's mixed with rainwater I brought in from outside, and he's making a dreadful mess of the floor.

**SIMON**

My face is red. Fuck it.

My wing's are probably going to explode from my back any second. Fuck it.

He wants a steak sandwich and tea and until then, he's going to sit there and watch me categorically fail to clean up the salt he made me knock over. Fucking tail. Fuck it.

At least I know he doesn't take sugar.

Only an absolute sadist would do that to an earl grey.

**BAZ**

My sandwich comes and it's so rare I'm surprised it doesn't get up off its plank of wood and say hello. It's stacked up Scooby-Doo style and held together with a skewer.

It's absolutely delicious. I turn to face the corner and cover my teeth with a hand, though the café is largely empty now. It's past seven and the Saturday night edition of London awaits.

Snow comes back once to check on me, conveniently while my chin is smeared with grease, and I nod my approval. The tea is piping hot and dark enough to delight.

I'm debating whether leaving a tip will send him into a fury, or if by _not_ leaving a tip I'll just become an enhanced stereotype of your usual wealthy, ignorant customer.

I try to think of a compromise as I finish off the final crust.

Behind me, something else goes crashing to the floor.

**SIMON**

Penny's asked me a hundred times why, on the day we defeated the Humdrum, I gave myself a bloody_ tail_. My answer's always the same: _No sodding clue_.

Because I'm Simon Snow. The world's most useless Chosen One. Because that's what I _do:_ I mess things up, and somehow keep surviving. Sometimes extra bits get added on and I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do with them.

Baz likes the sandwich. He eats the whole thing with his mouth covered, like he did with the chips. I hope he doesn't try to tip me. How embarrassing would that be?

As I walk over I can see him opening his wallet. He's already paid by card, so this _is_ a tipping situation, and he _is_ going to be smacked in the face by my wing any bloody second.

He puts a crisp five pound note on the table and pushes it across to me.

“Take this,” he says, “No arguments. You can buy the chips tomorrow. Then really we've just bought each other dinner, all right?”

He looks at me as he says it. I can't think of a reason to immediately disagree so I nod and pocket the money.

“See you at the flat, then,” he says, standing up. He's left the table clean; I can't see a single crumb.

“All right.”

He starts toward the door and I don't know why, but I reach out and touch his arm.

“D'you want an umbrella? The rain's bad.”

He looks at me funny so I pull my hand back. (Maybe rich people aren't normally nice to each other.) (Should I have punched him and called him a jolly good sport?)

“Won't you need it?”

I shrug. “Might've stopped by then.”

He looks at the door then back at me. His eyes are grey. (Really grey.)

“What time do you get off?”

I've got my pen in my mouth and almost choke on it.

“You what?”

“Work, Snow. They can't keep you here all night. What time does this infernal place close?”

“Nine.” I look at the clock on the wall. It's nearly eight.

His eyebrows go up. They do that a lot. (Not that I've had much chance to look at them.)

“How big is your umbrella?”

“Pretty bloody big, thanks very much.”

Wait. Are we actually talking about umbrellas, or...?

“I'll be outside,” he says, pushing his hair out of his face. “Loitering in a doorway. Scaring the locals. I'm good at that.”

I know I'm staring but I can't really help it right now. “You what?”

Maybe I _am_ a chav.

“I'll wait for you, Snow. And the umbrella. Then neither of us have to drown.”

“What, go home together?” I ask. I've bitten the end off my pen and now my mouth's all inky. “On the Tube?”

“Well, we're hardly going to walk in this weather, are we?”

“And you're going to wait outside for an hour?”

“I imagine there are other sights to see in the area, but yes, Snow. I'll wait.”

He's out the door before I can think of something clever to say. (I never think of something clever to say.)

All right. He's still avoiding me, obviously, but not _that_ much. Like, my company's preferable to having his hair ruined by the weather, or something.

I step into the café's back room and lean against the wall, getting myself under control. I tried Penny's angel spell this morning and it's worked so far, but I can't risk getting all worked up when he's under the umbrella with me. My wings would knock his head clean off.

**BAZ**

I admit I was touched when Snow offered me his umbrella. Everything he wears seems to have a hood on it, so I'm surprised he even owns one.

He leaves the café shortly after nine and comes over to me. I am indeed lingering in a doorway, like the sad stereotype I am. I spent the past hour in a Costa, drinking a decidedly worse earl grey.

Snow walks to me and opens an umbrella that's so ridiculously large it could safely provide adequate shelter for everyone I've ever met.

“Is there a station near here?”

“The nearest one's Piccadilly,” he says, zipping up his coat.

“Piccadilly Circus?”

I've never been. I must sound like an excited schoolboy.

“Yeah,” he says, pointing us around the next corner. “It's not far.”

**SIMON**

Baz has never seen Piccadilly Circus. He seems genuinely impressed, looking up at all the lights and signs. He even does a twirl. It's Saturday night so it's packed with people wherever you look. I ask him what he did today (because I'm proper nosy and also still a bit suspicious of him) and he tells me about Leicester Square. I mention that I've never been to a play and he says we should go to one.

Yeah, right. That'll never happen.

_Me,_ in a theatre? With a bloke?

I mean. It's no different from going to the cinema, really, is it? Just sitting in the dark and ignoring each other. And it doesn't matter that he's a bloke. Not really. I bet men go to the theatre together all the time. He seems pretty cultured so he'd probably pick a good play and wear one of his flowery shirts. And a blazer.

So maybe it wouldn't be that bad.

I get us to the Tube station in one piece and he watches me fight to collapse the umbrella. It isn't even mine; I borrowed it from the staff room. I'll have to take an extra shift at Tortured Bread Artist again just to return it.

**BAZ**

We have to stand up on the Tube. I don't mind. This whole “living in London” thing still holds enough novelty value for me that I remain cheerful, even when we have to switch from the Northern to the Jubilee line and we're momentarily lost in a crush of people. I even find the man constantly reminding us to _Mind the gap! _rather charming.

I am a tourist in my own country. But I did spend much of my childhood shut away in Father's house.

When we've changed lines once more to the DLR, Snow pulls a pair of earbuds from his coat pocket and leans in to me.

“Want to listen?"

**SIMON**

I thought he'd say no but he takes the left ear and I take the right. I open the music app on my phone and immediately scramble to close it.

“Snow,” he says, grinning down at me. “Have you been listening to _classical music_?”

Penny says I can't actually will my wings and tail away. It doesn't work like that; it's random. Maybe me getting emotional affects it a bit, but basically, spells wear off and I just have to be ready when it happens. I'm convinced that if I concentrate _really, really hard,_ my wings will listen and not pop out of my back. Not here, on the Tube, next to Baz. Not just because I'm embarrassed to be caught mid-Mozart.

“Yeah. A bit. I downloaded an album. Or two. I just, well...you asked about composers and I didn't know any.”

He's smiling at me. (I don't think he's being nasty.)

“And what do you think?”

“He's pretty cool,” I shrug. “I suppose.”

“Yes,” Baz says. “Mozart _is_ pretty cool.”

We listen to that and then some other stuff that comes up on shuffle. He hasn't heard of most of the bands I like, but he nods along, and his lip doesn't curl up in disgust. Maybe he's not that snobby after all. Maybe he's just really bad at being friendly because of all those private tutors he had. Our heads are close together and I can smell his shampoo. He spent roughly two hours in the bathroom this morning and all his stuff looks expensive. Smells nice, though. Woody and spicy.

At some point I mess with my phone so I can text Penny back. She's sent me three more messages asking if I'm still alive, if I've killed Baz, and if her spells are working. I quickly thumb a response: s_till alive, won't kill Baz, on the tube, wings ok_.

Two more stops then we're there.

My phone's nearly dead but I let the music play.

**BAZ**

I'm leaning into Snow a bit more than is strictly necessary, but he smells like bread and cinnamon and wants to share his music with me, so I'll live a little dangerously. (He _is_ horribly good looking.) (I'm weak.)

He turns his head to do something on his phone, and I'm in a prime position to count all of his eyelashes. Instead I draft a reply to Fiona before she takes my silence as an excuse for drama and sends her vampire hunter friends to check on me: _All is well. Nobody's dead yet._

She texts back immediately: "_good to know. ;-)"_

That blasted winking face. She wants to meet up tomorrow in the Starbucks by the Cutty Sark and hear all about my first week _Chez Snow_. I could summarise it for her now: _hiding in bathrooms, skulking in museums, hating myself, demolishing tall sandwiches_.

I think I'll decline. I'll see her next week, instead.

Tomorrow's Sunday and my bloodlust is somewhat under control, so perhaps I could stay at the flat and attempt to be vaguely friendly. We're not doing too badly at the moment, are we? And the evening turned out to be pleasant, despite the rain.

I put my phone away and look at his eyelashes, instead. Snow is tapping his foot in time to the music and I don't think he knows he's doing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death By Sandwich and Tortured Bread Artist aren't real places in London (that I know of), but if there IS such a place out there, I 100% want to visit one day.


	5. The Alleyway

**SIMON**

I fell asleep on the sofa last night. Shit. How many episodes of _Peaky Blinders_ did we watch? The telly's judging me, asking if I want to continue watching. So it must have been a few. My wings are all in my face, like my life choices are any of their business. I dig my wand out from under a cushion and fail to spell them away.

“_**Flying without wings.**__”_

“_**These wings are made to fly.**_” Shit. That probably made them worse.

I try throwing out a David Gray song. He's still cool, right? “_**Birds without wings**_”.

Nothing.

I hear movement from the other side of the flat.

_Baz._

I remember getting home last night and asking if he wanted to watch telly. He wouldn't sit on the sofa but he did drape himself across the armchair until I nodded off.

Did he see my wings? Normally it wakes me up when they appear.

Maybe he's seen them. He's seen _me_, for what I am. (A wreck. If the Titanic were a person, it would look like me.) Maybe he's packing his designer suitcases and getting ready to leave as I lie here, failing to cast magic. Pop songs are not reliable spell choices. Penny's told me that a million times. How does her angel spell go again?

I get them to vanish seconds before Baz opens his bedroom door and comes out, looking ridiculously good considering it's not even ten in the morning. Is this what normal people do on Sundays? They get up in the morning? (Is Baz normal?)

He ignores me, which is fine, because I'm sure I'm sweating through the sofa. He goes into the bathroom to begin the epic three-hour ordeal that is _Tyrannus Basilton: Greeting The Day_.

Penny texted me this morning. (Was it the middle of the night for her? I can't remember how the time difference works.) It's a photo of a weird reflective sculpture that she claims is in Chicago. She asks what the weather's like and I don't even bother to look out of the window:_ eternal rain_. She writes back and says she misses rain.

**BAZ**

I'm hiding in the bathroom for two reasons. One: I am prone to bed hair. It is not pretty. Two: Snow's lying on his back on the sofa, looking bewildered that the sun's risen yet again, and it made something jerk inside my stomach.

The shower's piping hot. Perfect. I can melt my skin off and not have to worry. Then I can smooth something through my hair and get it into an acceptable state.

Then I can ask Snow if he wants to spend the day together.

It sounds ludicrous, even inside my own head. I'm sure he'd rather not spend the _entire _day with me, but even if he agrees to having dinner tonight, it'd give me something to live for. (Ha.)

Hunger is tickling the back of my throat. Red hunger. I can hardly go hunting in London in daylight - Fiona would stake me just to spare me from my own idiocy. I'll make it until tonight. (I always do.)

Once suitably coiffed, I unlock the bathroom door and go into the living room.

Snow isn't here. I can hear him in the kitchen, swearing at a tub of butter.

Because I'm a sadist, I slide into his spot on the sofa. It's warm. I pat the cushions down but nothing moves; whatever I thought I saw the other night must have been in my imagination.

I move back into the chair before he catches me here.

**SIMON**

“Here you go.” I almost chip his tooth when I thrust the plate into his face. “Croissant.”

Penny left it in the freezer - it was the last one in the bag. I thought maybe he'd like croissants because he's probably been to France and all sorts of other places. I texted her to make sure it was okay and she was all “_Simon!!!! Eat what you want, I don't live there anymore._”

I tried to butter it but the butter was too hard and it just sort of ripped up the croissant.

He says thank you and eats it, hand over his mouth.

It smells nice in here today. I think it's his shampoo.

I wait for him to speak because I mean, he looks like he's clever so he probably knows what to say.

And I don't.

**BAZ**

This barely qualifies as a croissant.

It is a distant, rubbery third cousin of a croissant that any self-respecting French person would sacrifice on the spot. To whom the sacrifice would be addressed, I do not know. Whichever deity is most concerned with bread and grave offences against boulangeries, I suppose.

It's a kind gesture. I appreciate it, and so I eat the godforsaken hell-bread which has been butchered with cold spikes of butter. (Where's _his_ croissant?)

Coffee would be nice. I've spied the off-brand instant granules at the back of the cupboard, but can't bring myself to do it. I'm not_ that _desperate. (Yet.) I should have brought Daphne's cafetière from home. Father wouldn't have missed it. Mordelia got him an espresso maker for Christmas and it's his new religion.

“Thank you for breakfast. Have you ever been to France?”

The likelihood of Simon Snow moving out of arm's reach of his sofa is low, so I can already guess the answer before he mumbles it at me.

“No. Never been out of the country. Have you?”

“No,” I reply. “I haven't either, actually. Been out of the country.”

I'm about to ask him where he'd like to go one day, if he ever gathers the wherewithal to complete a passport application, when I see the sofa cushion moving. I squint at it - there it goes again! There's no question this time. I raise a finger to point, but Snow's already up and gambolling his way back into the kitchen.

“It's a squirrel!” he shouts absurdly. “It's a bird!”

**SIMON**

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck _fuck fuck_.

What is up with my sodding _tail_?

Penny compared me to a wagging dog once and I swear I almost ended our friendship there and then. That idea hardly holds up here, does it? I'm not exactly happy, talking to Baz. (I'm terrified.) (I don't know why.)

I calm myself down by running my hands under the tap. It's a colossal waste of water, but it works. I check everything's still hidden and leave the kitchen.

He won't buy the squirrel story. I'm just going to pretend I didn't say anything.

“What are you up to today?” I ask from the doorway.

“I was going to take a walk,” he replies. I watch him put his plate on the coffee table. It's the one decent plate in the flat and I had to wash it especially. “Would you like to come?”

Last night on the tube was nice. Listening to music. Not talking or judging or thinking. I didn't call him a horrible name in my head (not even once). But the thing with my tail...that's not good. He definitely noticed. I can't risk it. We can hang out later, when he gets back.

“I think I'll stay in today. Chips tonight though, yeah?”

He's standing now, walking over to me. I wish he wasn't so tall. I feel pathetic.

“Fine,” he says, and I swear he's as disappointed as I am. “See you later.”

Then he's gone in a rush of cedar, and I'm left standing in the doorway like an absolute numpty. As soon as the front door slams (it's far too early to go for a walk on a Sunday, I mean, it's not even _eleven_) I cross to the window in the living room. It gives a good view of the street. (Or it would, if I ever cleaned the windows. I can just about see a wibbly shape that might be Baz.)

He's gone right, and he'll turn right again at the corner to get to the tube station. I wonder where he's going. I'm thinking about the best options for Sunday sightseeing in London when I notice another blurry something step out of the phone box across the street, and fall into step behind Baz.

My wings explode from my back. “_**This isn't flying**_!” I shout, clutching my wand so hard it hurts my hand. It takes three tries but they do eventually vanish.

And then I'm out the door, pulling one of Baz's nice jackets off the peg. (Why does he own so many jackets?) (I should probably own _one_ jacket.)

Why do I care what happens to him?

Why am I being so horrible? Because he isn't Penny?

He has to know who I am. The way he curls my name around his tongue before he says it...he knows what I used to be, at least.

If he knows I was the Chosen One, he knows that in my time I've done a lot of stupid, brainless, heroic things, just because I had to.

I run down the steps to our flat. I burst through the door. I can't summon my sword anymore, but I've got my wand and a head full of steam.

I'm about to do something stupid and brainless. (Will Baz think it's heroic?)

Nobody follows _my _flatmate to the tube station.

I mean. I wouldn't let anything bad happen to Penny. So it should be the same for Baz, right?

Right?

**BAZ**

When Snow catches up with me I'm expecting some sort of dramatic scene, because that seems to be his _modus operandi_. I am not expecting him to push me into the alleyway behind the chip shop and scream the word _“Goblin!” _in my ear, loud enough to deafen.

I stagger into the wall, catching my foot on a pile of black rubbish bags. Unidentifiable bin juice drips onto my shoe.

“Crowley, Snow, what's wrong with you?”

I admit I've not been the model flatmate thus far, but I hardly think I deserve to be called a _goblin_.

When I turn I see what's wrong. He's tall and skinny, green and red. Good looking with bad intentions. I've never met a goblin but I've heard about them. Father's always told me not to go near one with a snide, knowing look on his face.

Snow barrels into the goblin like it's the first good meal he's seen in weeks. He's got his wand out but instead of casting a spell he starts stabbing at it. Fists and feet are flying everywhere. The goblin puts up a fight but is no match for the living fury that is Simon Snow. (It's quite something.) (He's surprisingly graceful.) (Also deadly.)

I slip my wand out of my sleeve. It's a habit Fiona drilled into me.

“_**Living daylights**_!” I shout, aiming at the goblin's feet.

**SIMON**

Baz sends the goblin flying with a wicked spell. It lands funny and bangs its head on a metal bin.

I don't give it chance to find its feet – I'm kneeling over it, bracing its head between my knees and swinging my fist down. (Pokes, as well. The wand's still in my hand and I might as well put it to use.)

I don't think about magic until the goblin's already lying still, eyes closed. Since losing most of my own magic, my mind rarely goes to spells first. It's like the reception's gone fuzzy and I can't get a proper signal. Doing magic makes me think about the Humdrum, and I don't want to think about him. (And I never want to think about the Mage.)

I take a moment to appreciate the goblin's cheekbones before standing up. It's a shame I had to smash its face in. I must've spelled my wings good and proper because they still haven't popped.

I feel great.

“Any good at hiding things?” I ask, trying to look casual.

**BAZ**

Snow's chest is heaving. He's standing over the goblin corpse as if it's no big deal, just another typical Sunday morning Chosen One experience. He comes over to me and asks if I'm okay. (Is he wearing my _jacket_?) (That's unexpected.) (It looks quite good on him.)

I brush past him to stand over the goblin, wand raised. _You just killed something,_ I want to say. _Are_ you _okay?_ I'm deciding which spell to use to make it all go away when its eyes fly open and words escape its mouth.

“You...your sort isn't wanted here. Back to the dark with you, bl-”

Its eyes shutter again. My wand's up and I'm shouting words.

“_**Out of sight, out of mind**_!”

The goblin's gone. (The bags of rubbish disappear, too.) My tutors never made it clear what happens to things when you vanish them. Logic dictates it must continue to exist _somewhere_. Well, as long as it's not crowding this alleyway and making my life complicated, I don't care.

I smooth my hair and turn to face Snow. I'm hoping he didn't hear what the pretty green idiot said.

“Snow, did it hurt you? Are you all right?”

He's looking at me like I've grown a third ear.

Oh, for Merlin's sake.

**SIMON**

“What did he mean by _your sort_?” I ask. Baz doesn't reply. He wipes something sticky off my (his) jacket and asks if there's somewhere nearby to get coffee. He seems to think I need to sit down and recover, even though I'm raring to go. I could fight another fifty goblins. (Well, maybe not _fifty._) I tell him there's a coffee shop by the river and he says to lead the way, which I do, despite being ready to question him a minute ago.

Does he have this effect on everyone?

We go through the doors and Baz asks for my order. I expect him to bring over two black coffees and say something sarcastic like _as black as my soul_, _Snow_. But I get my cappuccino and he has this massive salted caramel latte topped with whipped cream and sugary sprinkly bits. (It looks good.) (Maybe if I look pathetically heroic enough, he'll let me try it.)

“Are you going to tell me what the goblin meant?” I ask, ripping the heads off three sugar sachets. There's only a couple of other people in here but Baz is twitchy. “What's wrong?”

He's not even touching his drink. It's going to get cold.

**BAZ**

Fiona's not here. She didn't reply to my text cancelling our meeting this morning, and I'm worried she'll come sauntering in and drop herself down beside us. There'll be a glint in her eye and a spiral-bound notebook full of questions in her hand, with which she then assaults Snow.

She's not here. The coffee shop is practically empty. The goblin's dead and everything's as well as it can be. I now have a choice to make – which secret do I give up? That I'm a vampire or that I'm a Pitch? (Or that I'm gay.) (That's the least of my worries at the moment.)

“Your sort,” I hear myself say. “I'm from one of the Old Families, Snow. I thought you'd figure it out when I signed the lease. Didn't Bunce tell you?”

He's shaking his head. There's a line of foam along his upper lip.

“My name is Pitch - Baz is my middle name. My mother was Natasha Grimm-Pitch.”

His face is all scrunched up. “So what was all that Tyranny stuff about?”

I sigh. “Tyrannus, Snow. My first name. I've always gone by Baz.”

I give him time to conjure a reaction. To my surprise, he doesn't work himself into a storm. His shoulders shrug and he returns his attentions to his coffee.

“You don't mind?”

“Why would I? Never met a Pitch before. Never been wronged by one.” He drinks a mouthful of coffee and I watch his Adam's apple slide. "Directly, anyway. It makes sense. I mean, now I know why you dress like you're going to a never-ending dinner party."

I search around for reasons he should hate me. There's one glaring reason (a very pointy, bloodthirsty reason), but even though now's a decent opportunity to broach the subject of me being slightly dead, I hold back. (One dirty secret at a time, Basil.) (Moderation is key.)

“But we're an Old Family. The Mage hated us.”

His face tightens. “I know. I'm not the Mage though, am I? And he's gone now. Things are different.” He looks at me. The goblin must have got in a lucky punch because one side of his face is swollen. “Penny's mum says it's better to work with the Old Families instead of pushing them away. She also says your mum was an amazing mage.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I'm not involved with that stuff anymore. I'm just..._here_.”

I sit quietly. Father's only ever expressed negative opinions about the new Watford headmistress, but it sounds to me as though she has a few bright thoughts in her head.

I'm not going to get anywhere with Snow with the Mage's name in my mouth. It's too close to whatever is at the core of him, the thing that's keeping him on the sofa with a perpetual crease between his eyes.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.” That I'm a vampire. _Oh, no, wait. Ignore that part._

“It doesn't matter.” He seems to mean it. “Why weren't you at school with us? At Watford?”

“Father kept me at home. After the – attack _–_ he didn't want to send me. He said he had to keep me safe, as the Pitch heir. I had tutors.”

“After the vampire attack?”

I stare intently into the depths of my whipped cream. _I'm not lying. This is the truth._ “Yes.”

“I'm sorry about your mum, Baz.”

I nod. Should I apologise for the Mage, even though I wasn't there? My family said it was a good thing he died, but observing Snow from the corner of my eye, I'm not sure it didn't come at a price.

“Why'd you think that goblin was after you? I know why one would come after _me_, but...”

It's hard to conjure lies this smoothly. I hate that I'm good at it. “I'm new in the area...it possibly knew who I was. It may have worked for somebody who doesn't want the Old Families nosing in on their patch.” I swallow, coffee bitter on the back of my tongue. “Plus, my aunt's well known around the city. And she's not popular.”

It takes him a moment. “Fiona Pitch.”

“Yes. Vampire hunter. Again, I apologise. I should not have kept this from you.” And about the vampire thing...

He drains the dregs of his cappuccino and stands, stretching his arms in a way that makes my jacket rise up around his waist. Underneath it he's wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans that have seen better days.

“It's all right, Baz. No harm done.” He smiles - his mouth's lopsided. (I want to..._No_.) “Good job I looked out the window when I did.”

I nod. He's been eyeing my whipped cream for a solid five minutes so I push the mug to his side of the table. He sits back down and shoves his face in, getting cream all over his nose. (Now I want to..._No, no, no._)

"And maybe, after this, we can be less arseholeish. Y'know, with each other."

"Arseholeish? Is that a word, Snow?"

"Doubt it. You know what I mean, though. Avoiding each other, calling each other names..."

"I haven't called you any names."

"You sure? Must just be me, then. Anyway - we could just, y'know, try. Both of us. Try a bit more."

I agree. He wipes his face and gets cream all over the sleeve of my jacket. (What names has he called me?) (I dread to think.)

“Still want to go for a walk?” he says. “I thought of something cool we could do.”

Is this relief in my chest? I say yes, and when he's finished demolishing the rest of my drink, we step out into the daylight. I let him get a few steps ahead of me so I can slip my phone out of my pocket and fire off a message to my aunt: _Goblin attack. One useless specimen. Dealt with, but – WTF?_

I used a popular internet acronym, so she'll know I'm pissed off.

Nothing demonstrates my fury better than unwarranted abbreviations.

**SIMON**

I take Baz along the footpath that runs alongside the Thames. It goes past the university (which I guess he's already seen - he had to go in this week to enroll for his course) and then past old docks and all these new housing developments that are half-finished. Eventually, in about an hour, we'll reach the Millennium Dome.

We don't have to go inside if he doesn't want to. That's not the main reason we're going this way. Penny made me walk down here when we first got the flat - she said the area was historic and I should see it. I don't know much about history, but I do know it's a nice walk. You don't get many cyclists on this path and at this time on a Sunday, there aren't many other pedestrians, either. (They're all still in bed.)

Baz asks me a question about Watford that's hard to answer - _“What was it like?”_ \- and then all of a sudden we're talking. About the past, the present and everything.

It's nice. Strange, but...nice.

He tries to push a couple of questions about the Mage but I ignore them. I get that he wants to know what happened – he's got to be one of the only mages in England who's _this _clueless – but I can't. It's a lot. I don't even know if I _could_ explain. I tried to tell my therapist but the words wouldn't come. One minute he was there, and so was the Humdrum, and then there was...nothing.

He tried to suck the magic out of me, but I think he took the words instead.

I can talk about other things. Anything, really, except him. (And the Humdrum.) (And there's absolutely no explanation for the wings and tail.)

Here we are, me and the new flatmate, getting along. Couple of lads who just clobbered a goblin, strolling by the river. At some point I check my phone. There aren't any new messages from Penny. Nobody else ever texts me.

**BAZ**

Snow talks about Watford freely, though for a reason I can't fathom he gets distracted by scones and goats in the midst of most sentences. He doesn't say anything about the Mage. Whenever there's a natural point in our conversation during which he might be referenced, Snow skirts around the subject and starts talking about Bunce, instead.

_It's fine, Simon_, I want to say. _There are things I can't find words for, either_.

After today I could write a book about Penelope Bunce. I feel as though I know everything about her – her faults, her strengths, her interests, her brilliance. She's the only subject that raises any passion in him, and it makes a twinge of what I'm quite sure is jealousy erupt inside me. Just for a moment. (It's enough to make me feel rotten.) (Basil, you can't assume that every blue-eyed curly-haired goblin-slaying sandwich artist you meet is gay. You just can't. That way madness lies.)

He doesn't mention the attack again. It's as though the whole goblin-in-an-alleyway debacle never happened. It unsettles me that he has such a cavalier attitude toward death. Is that what being the Chosen One means?

We've been walking for ages. I don't mind. It's a lovely morning. Fresh, after yesterday's rain.

**SIMON**

Baz is impressed by the Dome. I think he likes London so far. I duck into the nearby bus station to use the loo, and end up coaxing a packet of crisps out of a vending machine with an _**Off you pop!**__. _It feels good when my magic works. Most of the time spells do nothing. I double back to get another packet for Baz. (I pay this time. I forgot I had a pound coin in my pocket.)

“Thanks, Snow. Salt and vinegar's my favourite flavour.”

“Mine too.” (Though I also like prawn cocktail.) (And barbecue.) (And I wouldn't kick a plain old packet of ready salted out of bed, to be honest.)

We hang about by the Dome for a bit and he insists on taking pictures with his phone. We get another cup of coffee, then I walk us over to what I'd thought he might like. It's not a Sunday morning walk, exactly, but it's a great way to see the city.

There's a cable car that goes over the Thames. You can buy tickets when you turn up or use your Oyster card - loads of commuters use it every day.

There's no queue and we get a car to ourselves. Baz's face is practically smashed against the glass as we go up and over. You can see docks and bridges and the Dome. You can see the Thames Barrier, too. (I don't really know what it is, but Penny says it's dead important.) (Baz takes a picture of it.)

“It's a feat of engineering, Snow,” he says, and then he starts listing his top ten favourite bridges in the UK and I sit back and listen. It's interesting that he has a list of bridges in his head. I make up lists of things as well, but most of them are food-related.

“I do engineering,” I say. Well, I shout it. I don't know why I keep doing that. “Sort of. I'm studying it at the college. Civil engineering.”

His eyebrows go up. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. It's my first year, so. I'm just seeing what it's like.”

I can't tell what he's thinking when he looks at me like that.

“I'm impressed, Snow. I assumed you'd be taking _communications_ or _television studies_, or something of that ilk.”

I shrug. (Television studies sounds good.) (Is that a real thing?)

"Why engineering?"

"I wanted to know how to fix broken things." I must sound so stupid. "And make things that can't be broken. Maybe."

He's looking at me funny. He doesn't say anything back.

“What's your uni course?”

Baz is going to a proper university. I bet he's studying classical music or Ancient Greek poetry or Shakespeare for Method Actors, or something.

“English literature,” he says. So I wasn't_ too_ far off.

Our car's going down. We're sitting opposite each other - he looks across and smiles at me. Why does that make me want to smile back? I just thought doing this might take his mind off the goblin. It's shit that something attacked him because of who he is. That's happened to me hundreds of times, but it was my job, wasn't it? My calling. I never had a choice.

I can make choices now. I can choose to get up on Sunday mornings, like a madman. I can choose to go on the cable car. I can choose to help Baz. I can choose not to think he's judging me. I can choose to conveniently forget to return his jacket. (It's comfy.)

I can _choose_. Is this the first time I've realised? And understood?

Penny always makes choices for me. She's good at knowing what to do next.

Maybe I can make a few choices now.

Baz is still grinning as the doors slide open. He asks what we're doing next and I ask if he wants to get straight back on and go over the river again. He hesitates, like he wants to say yes but also wants to know what I think first.

“What do you say, Snow?”

“Let's go back over.”

He's got a pretty great smile, really.

I'm making good choices today.


	6. The Appearance

**BAZ**

“Was it good looking?”

I'm sitting in the coffee shop, nursing a headache, being interrogated by my incorrigible aunt. She bombarded my phone with messages this morning until I agreed to meet. She hadn't seen my text from yesterday – apparently she was on a mission for the Coven, taking out a pack of vampires somewhere near Brighton. _“They'd been preying on vegans, Basil. One of them complained about the taste before I chopped its head off. Serves them right for running a vampire racket in Brighton. It's practically a hippie commune.”_

“What?” I snap.

“The goblin,” she says, sipping black coffee. “Was he handsome?”

I sneer and bury my face in my latte. (He wasn't _ugly_, persay, but a bit green for my tastes.) I've ordered the same drink as yesterday and it's making me think about Snow. He woke me with a thump this morning – I heard the dulcet tones of him shouting, followed by his body hitting the carpet as he fell out of bed. I knocked at his door and asked if he was alive; he mumbled back an apology.

I wanted to check on him but I could smell his blood through the door.

I hid in the bathroom until he went to work. I didn't drink yesterday, and the smell of him was killing me. (Better me than him.)

“You're bad news, Baz. You're not safe this far from home.”

“I'm not safe anywhere.”

It's true. I'm highly flammable, so every day's a dance with death. At the flat there's always the risk of Snow blowing me up whilst he's trying to toast a bagel. Outside, a stray cigarette could be my end. And at home...

Well.

“There's a minor gang in these parts,” Fiona's saying, ripping up sugar sachets. “I warned you about them – the Abdominal Ones.”

I groan. It really is a terrible name for a vampire gang.

“Yes, the Abominably Named Ones. And you think they sent their little green henchman after me? Why would goblins be working with vampires?”

Her eyes narrow. “They're not. If the local goblin nest starts playing up, Baz, the vampires will stir.” She pulls a strand of long, black hair out of her coffee, grimacing. “I don't expect your goblin mate was happy, having a new mage show up on his doorstep.” She gets up to demand a refill from the barista. She's wearing enough leather to furnish a three-piece suite, and safety pins jangle in her ears as she walks. “So how's the first week been with our special someone?” Her eyes twinkle. (Malevolently, of course.) She wants to talk about Snow.

I wouldn't know where to start.

He's studying engineering because he wants to fix things. Because he wants to make things that can't be broken. It's poetic and I felt something as he said it. Should I tell Fiona that? Or mention how he's so numb to being sent on deadly missions by the Mage that he had no reaction to slaughtering a goblin in an alleyway? (It _did _make him hungry.) (Between us I'd say we ate about ten packets of crisps yesterday.)

I'm still unnerved by it. Last night, when we got back to the flat and Snow set about demolishing his dinner, my hands started shaking. I buried them in my lap and tried to focus on the television.

We've finished the first series of _Peaky Blinders_ now. I'm getting into it.

  
  


**FIONA**

He's far away.

_Basilton_, I want to say, shaking him by the shoulders. _Where have you gone?_

But it was never about the destination for this one. It's always been about _going_. And he's done it, hasn't he? Got out from under his dad's roof and made his way into the world. I couldn't sleep for worrying that first night. I wanted him back on my sofa bed, clothes creased, every word out of his mouth a vicious lie. At least then I could watch him.

I could keep him safe for you, Tasha.

He's telling me how they took down the goblin. Snow was there, the Mage's pet, and it sounds like he did most of the legwork. The Chosen One can still fight And even though he's complaining about a lot of things – the weather, lack of urban wildlife, the price of bottled water – he's not complaining about him. About Simon Snow.

I didn't want him to move to London. He's too far from what he knows. I wanted him to stay where we could reach him. Only ever at arm's length.

He's got my number and he'll call if he needs anything. He's not too proud for that, and he doesn't have much else, does he?

He's mine. He's a Pitch. He's a bloody vampire but I'd never rip his head off. I want to see him live and never have to watch him die.

Goblin surveillance isn't my job, but I'll take care of it. I'll clean out an entire nest, if needs be.

I'll take care of him for you.

  
  


**SIMON**

I've messed up three orders so far today. The manager sent me in the back to wash up.

Baz wouldn't come out of the bathroom this morning. (When am I supposed to shower?) (If he makes a single comment about my BO, I'll go _off_.)

Yes, I fell out of bed and woke him up. And what? It's not my fault I sleep like an idiot. I don't even know what's going on in my head. It's just...noise. There's no sleeping through it.

I think I shouted at myself until I woke up.

I couldn't concentrate at college this morning. I lay my head on the desk and the lecturer left me to it. All I can think about is how yesterday was so _good_ but then this morning was shit, and apparently we're back to ignoring each other. Even though we both said we'd try.

There's still three hours of my shift left. Before closing we get to choose a sandwich to take home (best part of the day), then I usually volunteer to take the rest to the local homeless shelter. Once I've finished drying the plates, maybe I'll make Baz a sandwich. (I don't know how to do peace offerings without food.) (I think a lot of wars could be avoided if both sides sat down and had dinner together.)

I should ask him what he does at night. Then I'll know. It can't be _that_ weird, and I doubt it's anything illegal - he won't even cross the road unless the green man's flashing at the pelican crossing.

Part of me knows it's unfair to get this worked up about a secret. I do have two big, red, leathery secrets of my own. And a tail. Maybe we could sit down and tell each other what we're hiding. _I'll show you mine if you show me yours,_ sort of thing. (I mean my wings, obviously.)

My phone vibrates. Penny's sending me pictures of tall buildings. She's still in Chicago – she went on a river cruise with Shepard. She wants to call on Skype later, but we haven't figured out the time difference, and every time she's free I'm asleep. I ask her if it's weird because Micah was from Chicago and she says no. It's like she's there for the first time – it's brand new.

I didn't tell her about the goblin. She'll only worry.

  
  


**BAZ**

I leave Fiona outside the coffee shop. It's raining again today. Grey skies suit her overall demeanour – grim and vaguely threatening. I've got a four-hour shift in the bookshop this afternoon, and I'm thinking about trawling the market before then. I'm so thirsty I can hardly think, but so far they've been putting me in the history section, which stays largely empty. I'll cope.

After I finish I'll go to Greenwich Park. It should be dark by then. I read online that there are two deer herds living there – red and fallow – but the herds are so small, I'm bound to attract attention if I start feeding on them. Apparently all sorts of birds live in the park, so that will have to do.

Honestly, I am so hungry I don't care what it is. I'd take a gaggle of pigeons, if necessary.

Fiona reaches out to grasp my arm and I get a whiff of blood. (Not hers – she must have some in her bag.) (She carries it around to wind up vampires.)

“Want a sip?” she says with one of her patented cruel winks.

“No, thank you,” I say, though I'm thinking about Snow's neck again. (I do want a sip.) (Please, no.)

  
  


  
  


**FIONA**

He's brave and foolish, this one. A shade too pale for sunlight - he's not drinking right. I'd give him what's in my bag, but he'd never take it. I get it from hospitals. Doctors'll do all sorts of shady things for money.

He's a good one, Natasha, your boy. I know you never thought that was possible for someone like him.

I tell him to try the park and go after a nice woodpecker or thrush. Tourists who go up there leave all sorts of things in bins, and the birds go wild for it.

This is my life, then. Killing vampires and watching over trouble.

He has to text me every day until the goblin sitation settles. If he doesn't, I'll find out where he lives and come knocking on the door - put a bit of fear into the Chosen One.

He agrees to write and call. “That's what I want to hear, boyo.”

Baz, you're a good one. You always have been.

  
  


**SIMON**

I'm knackered. Getting home, having a shower and falling onto the sofa sounds amazing. But when I get back to the flat, Baz isn't there, and I'm too annoyed to relax. I check the time - it's nearly nine. What's he up to?

I pace, then remember the sandwiches and put them in the fridge. (We really need to go shopping.) (Baz'll probably be disappointed we don't have a Waitrose.)

I'm going to find him.

I feel like a right arse for doing this, but it's the only thing I can think of. I pull out my phone and open the app that tells you where your friends are by checking their GPS. (Penny would've done a location spell instead). Baz gave me his number yesterday – it seemed right after the attack – and we've got the same kind of phone, so this should work. (Mine's about five years older than his, but still.) (I sent him _hi_ and a smiley face but he didn't text back.)

The app says he's in Greenwich Park. See, I do feel bad now. (Really bad. I'm being a creep.) He's gone for a walk in the park. There's the Observatory at the top of the hill, and all these trees and paths. I forget that he's only been here a week – there's probably loads of places he hasn't seen yet.

I delete the app off my phone. (I feel really, _really _bad.)

I look out of the window, thinking about the goblin. The rain's verging on torrential. I look at the pegs on the wall – Baz's coat with the hood's still there, so wherever he is, he's drenched. Maybe that's why he's late – he's stuck under a tree, trying to keep his hair dry.

I've still got that umbrella. I could go and find him. It's a big park, but Baz is hard to miss.

I pull the hood up on my jumper and get his jacket from my room. He didn't say anything about it yesterday so hopefully it's all right if I borrow it again.

It's a twenty-minute walk from here to the park. Maybe he'll have started back by then, and we'll bump into each other.

  
  


**BAZ**

It's nine o' clock on a Monday night and I'm standing under an oak tree, shivering. I've failed to hunt anything other than blackbirds, and their bodies are piled around my feet in a pattern. I've lived in London for one week and so far, I'm hopeless at it. I'm hopeless at living.

Snow will be at home, wondering where I am. I spent far too long exploring the park. Everything looked so green in the rain that I lingered before heading off the paths to hunt.

Maybe I'll drown. I'd deserve it.

I slump down onto my knees, resting my head against the tree. At least I'm not hungry anymore. I feel quite giddy, actually. Full with blood.

There's no one around. I pull my wand out to spell the blackbirds away when I hear a voice calling my name. My night-vision's better than most - it's someone in a baggy jumper with a very nice black jacket slung over the top. Snow. It's too late to cast in secret – he'll hear me. I do it quickly, relieved when the bodies are gone, even though I know it isn't over.

This is far from over.

I stand to face him. He's pulling his hood back and his curls get tangled in the fabric. In one hand he's clutching that ridiculous umbrella.

“Baz,” he says, shoulders squared. “What are you doing?”

  
  


**SIMON**

“Nothing. I was out for a walk.”

He's lying. He's looking at the sky, the ground, the tree – anywhere but at me. I knew he'd lie. He's under a tree, as expected, but what were all those things on the ground? They looked like...

“Were those _birds_?”

He hasn't stepped out from under the tree's cover. My hair's getting wet.

“No,” he says. “It was nothing.”

I wait for him to explain, but he doesn't. That's how he wants to play this? Fine.

“This is how it is, then? You go off every night to do whatever this is, and I sit in the flat wondering when you'll get back?”

His lip curls. “I'm not asking you to sit around worrying about me, Snow. We don't need to be domestic.”

_Fine_.

“Well, I_ was _worried. It's wet, dark...you don't know the area. Yesterday you got followed by a goblin. I wanted to help you.”

I realise it's true when I say it. (Also, I _really _want to know what he's doing.) The umbrella drops at his feet and he looks down his nose at it. At me.

“See you at the flat.”

I'm good at storming off. Penny always said that if there was an award for dramatic departures from rooms and public spaces, I'd win it every single year.

He can stay under the tree all night. Do what you have to do, Baz.

I can hear him coming after me – I think he slips in the grass – and he might be calling my name. I can't focus when I'm this angry. (When I'm this disappointed.)

Then he pulls my sleeve and spins me around.

“Snow, please – _wait._”

And I would. I really would wait, I think, and hear what he has to say.

But my wings explode from my back.

So I run.

  
  


**BAZ**

“_Snow!_”

He can move when he wants to. A casual observer would hardly believe this is the same person who has such an overbearing attachment to his sofa. Part of me wonders why he doesn't kick off from the ground and fly, but this is Simon Snow, and he doesn't do anything the easy way.

He has _wings._

I'm slipping and sliding all over the damned place, trying not to break my neck. Snow's got large red wings sprouting from between his shoulder blades (my jacket is well and truly ruined) and what looks very much like a tail whipping out behind him as he runs. It's red with a black spade at the end.

Crowley, what _is_ going on tonight?

He falls in the wet grass and lands on one knee. There are people on the path ahead and I really don't want to see my own face staring out from the front page of a newspaper tomorrow, so I use a burst of my vampire speed to catch up and push him against a tree. The trapped wings flap frantically, but with an arm across his chest he isn't going anywhere.

Hopefully he's too worked up to notice how strong I am. I generally don't tap into my _pale advantages,_ as Fiona calls them, but needs must.

“Snow,” I start. I can't help but stare. His wings are all over the place and that damn tail's lashing around between our legs. “What...”

  
  


**SIMON**

Don't say it.

Please, Baz.

Don't say _what are you_? (Because there isn't an answer.)

Don't say _what are they_? (Because I don't like to think about it.)

I should've flown off. That's why I have them, I think. I was fighting the Humdrum and had a sudden feeling, like, _I want to be free._

_I want to be _ away _and done with all of this._

It was stupid of me and Penny to think I could hide. It's best, really, that it's Baz who sees. He's magic. He grew up in a mansion and didn't go outside to learn basic social skills, but even so. He's read about all sorts of things in books.

I shouldn't be _that_ much of a shock.

He's pinning me against the tree. I stop fighting.

I'll stop running.

“What...” he says, wiping rain from his eyes. “What can I do?”

Oh.

“You what?”

I really need to stop saying that, but it keeps slipping out.

“We need to get you home, Snow. Let me help you. What spell do you use to hide them?”

There's a family on the path about twenty metres away. They haven't seen us but it's a disaster if they do. (_I'm_ a disaster.) I feel bad about Baz's jacket. Penny's list of spells is crumpled up in my pocket, so I pull it out and give it to him. He's not holding me against the tree anymore – his wand appears from a sleeve and he's studying Penny's handwriting. (I left my wand at the flat.)

“These are all ridiculous.”

“They work,” I mutter. I'm glad it's dark because my face is probably a tomato. “Most of the time.”

He raises his wand and casts Penny's angel spell. I don't feel the wings disappear, but I know they're gone. My back's flat against the tree. Penny worked in a clause for the tail so that's gone too, though unlike the wings it keeps a certain presence, whipping the air between us.

Baz is pointing his wand at me. He lowers it and tucks it away. Both of us are soaked, but I can see he picked up the umbrella before following me, and he opens it over our heads.

“Come on, Snow. Let's go home before any other parts burst out of you.”

  
  


**BAZ**

We're walking down the main road. Cars are driving by, headlights showing cracks in the pavement. Snow's not talking. He's hunched up under the umbrella, head down and hands in pockets.

I'm thinking about a time when I was twelve years old. In a haze of rage I spent the night outside in the house's grounds, camped under a tree. I hated my family and I hated myself. When I crawled back to the house next morning I pretended I had a terrible cold, an imaginary malaise that lingered for weeks, reminding me of the rain.

That's what I'm taking away from this night. The rain. (Vampires have curious immune systems.) (I feel like I'm invincible and one germ away from intensive care, at all times.)

Snow having wings and a tail seems fitting. The tail's still here_,_ moving between us. (It's oddly attractive.) (I'm the mess, not Snow.) At least now the mystery of the sofa cushion is solved. And the misbehaving salt shaker. He doesn't need to shout about invasive squirrels again, and I don't have to confess to being a vampire. (Yet.) (He doesn't seem to want to question me at present.)

“How did this happen to you?” I ask, and for the rest of the walk he talks (mumbles) about the Humdrum. He gets stuck, trying to talk about how the Mage died.

Oh. Simon Snow.

When we get back to the flat, I hold the door open and watch him enter ahead of me. There are two slits down the back of my jacket where his wings pushed through. I'm horrible at darning spells. (I own too many jackets anyway.)

“Snow,” I say, before he can flop down on the sofa. “You're not a monster. You know that, don't you? They're just wings. I'll spell them off anytime you like.”

He looks at me. He's vulnerable in the lamp light. We need to change the actual light bulb but I haven't found a stepladder yet, amongst the clutter.

“You don't have to do that.”

“I will. If you ever want help, tell me.”

“Why aren't you bothered by this?”

I have to look away. “You gave yourself wings saving magic from what was trying to end it. They're just another part of you, Snow. They're nothing sinister.”

I'm not sure he believes me. He nods and says, “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

He sighs. He does it with his whole body.

“Want a sandwich?”

  
  


**SIMON**

I'm in the kitchen searching for clean plates. Baz is in the living room, putting on the telly. I promised to pay for the jacket but he told me not to worry. He told me not to worry about my wings.

I don't think he sees what a loser I am. (_What can I do?_)

If he does, he's being polite about it. (_Let me help you._)

Food on a plate. There we go. That makes sense. I'll stick the kettle on because to be honest, after tonight, we're both dying for a cup of tea.

What do we do now? Pretend he doesn't know I have a tail?

Do I pretend I didn't see him spelling away dead birds?

I'll text Penny in the morning.

The kettle's boiling. (I need to find two clean cups.) (It's like an Indiana Jones expedition.) (Maybe we should do the washing up tomorrow.)

Baz calls from the living room and asks if we've got any mayonnaise.

Mayo's one of Penny's favourite things - she left a massive jar in the fridge. I find a couple of butter knives and balance everything in my arms. I wait tables so I'm pretty good at not dropping stuff.

I walk into the living room and the mayo nearly meets an early death on the carpet (which is already plenty stained from the curry sauce fiasco).

Baz is sitting on the sofa.

I mean, he's not in_ my_ spot, but he's there. He reaches up for one of the plates and rescues the mayo jar.

“Thank you. Sit down and stop worrying, Snow,” he says.

He waits for me to sink down beside him before he starts eating.


	7. The Attachment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to AdrianThyAlien for the idea that turned into the very beginning of this chapter.

**BAZ**

Snow falls out of bed again this morning. He's a tragedy, at war with gravity itself.

I'm already up and preparing to go to the bookshop. He doesn't shout this time – he screams – and I'm knocking on his bedroom door before I can think too hard about it. (I haven't seen inside his room.) (Whenever the door is open there's only darkness, as though he is the sole occupant of a cave. Or a black hole.)

“What's wrong? Are you hurt?”

Mumbling, shuffling, nothing discernibly human.

The door swings open and he forces his head into the gap.

“I'm fine. Sorry.”

“You don't sound fine.”

“Here, aren't I? I woke myself up.”

“And half the street along with you, I'd wager.”

He scrunches his curls with one hand. He's wearing pyjama bottoms that are far too long on him, and nothing above them. (Eyes up, Basil.) I suppose having wings that enjoy making dramatic entrances means he'd go through a lot of pyjama tops.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“Talk about what?”

“What you were screaming about.”

He's hanging on to the edge of the door as though it's the only thing holding him up in this world. Then he puffs out a breath and disappears back into the darkness. I'm about to give up – the kettle's boiled and I'd like a cup of tea before work – when he reemerges, wrapped in a duvet. He pulls the bedroom door shut behind him and slides to the floor. He doesn't look at me.

“Sorry."

I sit down opposite him, crossing my legs.

“What for?”

“Waking you up.” He rubs at his face with the duvet, eyeing me warily. “I sleep like shit sometimes.”

I'm wondering how much of this is connected to yesterday, and how much of it is just him. His life.

“I was already awake.”

“Oh.” He runs his eyes over me and notices I'm dressed for the day. He picks at something on his pyjama bottoms, breathing through his mouth. I'm not sure how he can be comfortable like this, with his wings confined. He's sitting on his tail; it twitches by my feet.

I don't think there's anything wrong with what he is.

But he does.

“You probably think it was this big, epic thing,” he's saying, still not looking at me. (I'm not even sure he's talking to me.) “It wasn't. I don't understand what happened. Everything always happens _to_ me, and I react. I do what I need to, what's expected. But there wasn't anything to expect that time, nothing to predict..._he_ was there, and the other one, and...the dead spots, you know about those, don't you?”

I nod. Father's always been terribly proud that the Hampshire estate wasn't affected by the Humdrum. Other families weren't so lucky. By all accounts, the magic's going to come back at some point, though it hasn't yet.

“I just wanted it to stop. All of it.” He's talking about the Humdrum. “He said he needed my magic. He tried to take it out of me.” Now I think he's talking about the Mage. “But Baz, if he'd _asked_, if I'd _known_...I would've given it.” Then, so quietly: “_He killed my friend._”

I want to pull him into my arms, but I'm worried that would send him scurrying back inside his cave. He leans forward suddenly and places his hand on my chest, above my heart. (Will he notice there's no heartbeat?)

“I thought I could do it,” he says. His eyes are red. “I could _push_ and it would...it would fill it. I tried.”

“Fill what?” I whisper.

“I don't know. The holes. The world.” His mouth closes. I hear him grinding his teeth. He seems to be coming back to himself – he looks around at where we are, scrunched up on the floor. “Sorry. I've got sleeping pills but I never remember to take them.”

His hand's still pressing against me. (His fingers are warm.) (I can feel a faint buzz, the scent of smoke, a flicker of his magic.) I gently take his wrist and put his arm back inside the duvet.

“You know it wasn't your fault, don't you? Any of it.”

“It was always my fault. I don't know what I did, I didn't mean to, but I'm here and they're dead.”

“No – you were a child when this started. It wasn't you.”

He laughs to himself. “Trust me, Baz, it was _me_. The Humdrum...I did it. I didn't mean to, but I did it.” He shakes his head. It's as far as he can go. _I didn't mean to._

What did I expect? That Simon Snow had gone into the final battle with his sword swinging, otherworldly magic falling from his lips? That he'd duelled the Humdrum in a fight for the ages and triumphed, saving magic and the World of Mages from extinction? That in the process the Mage had fallen, but it had all been for a greater good, a greater purpose?

Yes, I suppose I did imagine something like that.

“He didn't give you a choice,” I say, and I'm talking about the Mage. “I'm sure you did your best in the moment.”

“My best,” he repeats. Empty.

“It's over. It won't happen again. The dead spots will repair themselves. The Humdrum is gone.” (Because of you, you courageous idiot.)

His brow creases. “Repair themselves.”

I sigh softly. Yesterday, in the park, he'd looked like this. (Defeated. Scared. Younger than he is.)

“Look at me,” I say, and he does. “It was _not_ your fault.”

  
  


**SIMON**

After talking with Baz, I couldn't get back to sleep. I lay on my back and listened to him move about the flat. Then he left for work. My phone buzzed before I could start thinking too hard.

I'm Skyping with Penny before I get up, and she's telling me not to worry about yesterday. It's late there - early hours of the morning - and she's wide awake.

“_He's a Pitch, Simon. They probably have all sorts of strange family traditions._”

“But dead birds, Penny? In the middle of a park?”

I finally get to have a morning shower. (It's always steamy after he leaves; I reckon he cooks himself in there.) (I left the door open after he'd gone so the smell of his aftershave could float around the rest of the flat.)

It was strange, talking to him like that. Sitting on the floor.

But he didn't get up and walk away. He listened. (_“It wasn't your fault.”_)

I don't know when I last talked to someone like that.

Baz and I have got on well all week. He's worked a lot, and I had to go to college a few times, but we've hung out in the evenings and watched the second series of _Peaky Blinders_. Last night he pulled out a chess board and we played three games.

He asks if I want help spelling my wings off (sometimes I can do it myself, but it works first time for him), and we both just ignore the phantom tail. It doesn't seem to bother him. And it's not always dramatic when they appear now – they're just _there._ Then we take care of it and I can relax.

It's great, really, how he's handling it. The fact that I'm._..this._ The fact that I don't even know what I am.

I wouldn't tell him, but I could've done a lot worse than Baz. (Sometimes I wonder how Marvin and his doll heads are doing. Did he _ever_ find somewhere to live?)

“_Simon, it sounds like you're just looking for reasons to have a problem with Baz. Remember how paranoid you used to get about things at school? Has he hurt you? Has he stolen anything from you? Not that you'd be able to tell._”

“No.” (I definitely wouldn't be able to tell if he'd nicked something.) (If anything, I'm the vandal. There's no saving that jacket.)

I tell Penny about the wings-in-the-park incident, and I fill her in on the goblin attack.

“_Nicks and Slick, Simon, you need to be careful! Do you need me to come home? We're in the middle of nowhere at the moment, but I can ask Shep to drive us to an airport.._”

I shake my head. Penny and Shepard are currently in South Dakota (wherever that is), staying in a town called Deadwood. (I asked her if it's anything to do with the TV show but she didn't know what I was talking about.) (Penny would definitely fail a degree in _television studies_).

Tomorrow they're going to drive to Mount Rushmore, which I'm pretty sure is the hill with all the old blokes' faces in it. Then they're going west to Colorado and after that, somewhere called Wyoming to visit Yellowstone Park.

She's happy. Shepard pops in to say hello sometimes, and he's happy, too. I think he's good for Penny. I don't want to be the reason she loses all that happiness. Shepard's a Normal but he knows about magic. They met online through a friend of a friend and went to a convention together in Manchester. He knows about America's magical creatures and wants to write an encyclopaedia.

“Penny, Everything's fine. We took care of the goblin, and nothing else happened this week. Baz likes your angel spell.”

She's pleased to hear that. She really loves magic.

“_Simon, how are you feeling? Is everything okay?”_

I say yeah, of course, no worries. I don't think she's buying it completely, but what can she do? She's on the other side of the world. I won't bring up this morning. (She always despaired of me falling out of bed.) Before we disconnect, she says:

“_So do you think you'll want Baz to stick around? You're not going to force him out onto the streets_?”

I shrug. (Can't look too enthusiastic.) (Even though I'm happy with it. Him staying.)

“It's only been two weeks, Penny. We'll see how it goes.”

“_Everything's all right for now, though_?”

“Yeah, everything's fine. Definitely.”

She tells me she loves me (I don't say it back - I've never said it to anyone) and disconnects. I've got time to have a shower before I go to the café.

The bathroom smells like expensive aftershave.

  
  


**BAZ**

I leave the bookshop at two and find myself at a loss.

It's been a productive week. I've worked and spent time exploring London, buying a few things for my room. I've got bookshelves now, and a music stand. (I left mine at home and I'll be damned if I go back to get it. Mordelia's probably using it to display her awful pony sketches.) I might go into the city to find Oxford Street. There are all sorts of shops along there.

Snow and I have almost been friends this week. (If I knew what being friends meant, I might even say we were there.) We've shown an interest, shared food, greeted each other of a morning...I've sat next to him on the sofa every night, and it hasn't been awkward at all.

Well, apart from the fact I'd quite like to know what he tastes like.

Also, I'm cultivating a rather painful crush, and it's not doing me any good.

But I'm keeping all of the above urges under control and lessening Snow's suspicions, at the same time. I don't ask difficult questions. (Even though, Simon...on the floor, wrapped in a blanket...)

I also don't sneak out at night after he's fallen asleep. Instead, I leave earlier in the mornings and go down to the Thames. There's an old, disused part of the docks a short walk downriver - there's a rotting jut of stone and wood that's home to plenty of rats. They're damp and slippery, but fat (thank you, city life), and providing nobody calls the police on me, they should keep me going a good while.

I'll run out of rats. But I'll worry about that when it happens. (I'll probably be craving pigeon just to have a change of flavour.)

For now, I'm thrilled to be getting along with Snow. He's much less agitated – sometimes he even sits on the sofa with his wings out. (It's a bit awkward when he's upright, but he can lie flat on his stomach and they arc around him.) (It's lovely.)

I'm highly aware that I'm going to mess this up. This good thing we have.

I'm not expecting there to be some sort of epic romance (it's the other area where Snow is a completely closed book – he hasn't shown a flicker of interest in anyone but Bunce since I've met him), but if we can carry on like this, it will suffice.

I'll think about his hair, his eyes, his moles (and skin) when he's sitting next to me. (And drive myself a little bit mad in the process.) I'll think about how brave he was, fighting that goblin.

And then we'll say goodnight, go to our separate bedrooms and sleep.

If he wakes himself up with a nightmare, I can be there, cross-legged on the floor. I don't know the right things to say, but I can try.

It's enough. It's working. It's _home_.

I've switched from the DLR to the Central Line, and I'm almost at Tottenham Court Road. A woman on the train was complaining about the weather, and as I exit the station, I have a thought about a place Father used to go, on the rare occasions he visited London. An umbrella shop. Snow mentioned he borrowed his huge umbrella from someone at work, so perhaps I could buy one for the flat. For us.

  
  


**SIMON**

I'm tired tonight. (I'm always tired. Last night was a literal nightmare, and I feel bad about this morning.) (Baz was so cold where I touched him, even through his shirt.)

One more hour left at Death By Sandwich, then I can walk home and challenge my flatmate to a game of chess. One of the girls in the kitchen gave me tips during our break.

It's nearly eight when Baz walks into the cafe.

I hear the bell above the door jingle and look up to find him looking back. I wave and he grins, holding up a nice umbrella. (I think it actually might be James Bond's umbrella. It's _that_ nice.)

He sits down in a corner. It's weird to see him here. I mean, I'm getting used to having him around, but he's always dressed dark, and the café's bright. There are still a few people eating, and he sits as far from them as he can. Last time he walked into my place of work I was annoyed, but I'm happy to see him tonight.

He didn't have to do that, this morning.

He doesn't have to keep helping me, but he wants to.

I don't know what it is about Baz, but I like being near him lately. I like it better than arguing. And I definitely like it better than when we were ignoring each other.

It's weird, but it's like him seeing my wings has helped us get over something. Last night, after I lost the last game of chess, they popped out and one smacked him in the face. He just calmly moved it back behind his head and told me to rescue the bishop from my cup of tea.

I didn't expect to like Baz. We're different.

But he's been great. (Maybe I think that because my only other friend is on the other side of the world.)

I'm still curious about the birds, but since this morning I've been thinking, and maybe Penny's right. Maybe I'm just looking for reasons to push him away.

“Hi,” I say, handing him a menu. “Hungry? Kitchen's still open.” It's not the same menu as the one at Tortured Bread Artist, so I give him time to look. All of the sandwiches here have weird death-related names like _The Hammed Man, Lamb to the Slaughter_, and _Six Beets Under_. I don't know who thinks them up. He looks down the list with a smile on his face.

“_Steak to the Heart_, please, Snow.”

“Rare?”

“Please.”

“Earl grey?”

He grins. I like when he grins. “Yes, please.”

“No milk or sugar?”

“No milk or sugar.”

I take the menu and stare at the umbrella propped against his seat.

“What's that?”

He raises an eyebrow. (Cocky bastard.) “I believe it's a device for keeping rain off your head, Snow.”

“Yeah, I know that, but whose is it?”

“It's ours. I bought it for the flat.”

“Why'd you buy an umbrella?” It's fancy. Wooden handle, navy blue, nearly half my height. (We'll both fit under it.)

“Because you have to return the other one to its owner, and London seems committed to raining on us for the remainder of the year.”

I swallow and look at it again. “How much did it cost?”

“I hardly think it matters.”

“Baz, seriously, I'll give you half for it. That's fair.”

Both of his eyebrows are up now. He's not annoyed, though. (He's trying not to smile.) (So am I.)

“It was the best part of four hundred pounds, Snow.”

“Four hundred-!”

I drop my notepad and my pen rolls off under his chair. He bends down to pick it up and I can't keep my eyes off his hair. It flips about whenever he moves.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“You're welcome.”

“Four hundred quid for an _umbrella_? Baz, that's mental. That's my share of the rent.”

He snorts and wipes under his eyes. “Snow, do you honestly think we pay eight hundred pounds a month for a two-bedroom flat in _London_?”

I scowl. I shrug, too, just because I haven't done it for a while. “That's what I always gave Penny.”

Baz licks his lips and sits back in his seat. His hands are folded on the table in front of him, like he's going to interview me. (The Mage used to sit like that when he was about to send me on a mission.)

“You might need to ask Bunce about that. We're keeping the umbrella and you're not giving me a penny for it. You can buy the coffee next time we go out.”

My face is burning, so I'm not sticking around to argue. I tell him his sandwich will be out soon (it's not like it takes long to _not_ cook a steak) and I'm practically running toward the kitchen.

Not because my wings are going to show up. (They feel fine.) (They've felt fine all week.) But because Baz said _next time we go_ _out_ and for some reason that made me feel funny. It's a feeling I only usually have around food. So I don't know what that means.

Tomorrow's Sunday, and last week was nice, going on the cable-car together. I had an idea for something we could do tomorrow – I think Baz would like it – and maybe him saying that means he'd want to go with me.

I get his sandwich plated (we do actually use plates in this café - a customer complained about splinters once so we had to get rid of the wooden boards) and check my face in the back of a frying pan. I don't look as red. It's not like Baz hasn't seen me go red – when my wings popped in the park, I must've been in a right state – but he never does, and it's a bit embarrassing.

I wonder what it takes to make Baz blush?

  
  


**BAZ**

I'm weak for coming here. If I told Father I'd spent the entire afternoon drifting in and out of doorways, thinking about Simon Snow, he'd have me strung up by my ears.

I bought Snow a jacket but dropped it off at the flat before surrendering all better judgment and coming here. I thought we were going to argue about the umbrella, but he swallowed it. Still, I'll probably wait until tomorrow before hanging the jacket on the peg and hoping he notices. (Or maybe I'll toss it through his bedroom door and see if he adopts it as a natural part of his habitat.)

He's coming back to my table. I can smell the meat (and him) from here, and my fangs are already aching, gnawing through my gums. I cover my mouth and smile around the edges of my fingers. He puts a squeezy bottle of mayo down next to my plate (a plate!) and grins.

Merlin, Morgana and Methuselah, he's beautiful.

“Just in case,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

“Just in case,” I agree.

My phone's on the table. I sent Fiona a message earlier to let her know I was alive (she's insisting on that), and her reply has come in:_ "Good to hear. Meeting with the AO leader tonight. Want to come?_”

Snow's walking back to the counter, checking on other customers as he goes, and I watch him. He's got an apron tied around his waist and a pen balanced behind one ear.

_No,_ I write, _I have plans_. (I don't, but I'd like to.) (And I really don't want to get between my aunt and a vampire.)

Her reply comes as I'm taking a bite of my dinner: _“I'll let you know what happens. Stay safe.”_

My aunt is the only one in my family to know all of me and to accept everything - fangs, gay, and all. The others only get small pieces of me to keep. It's easier that way. It hurts less.

I can't help but glance at Snow's back again. He's trusted me with so much, and I know I ought to do the same. If I confided in Fiona about the ridiculous crush I'm harbouring, I know exactly what she'd say: “_Think with the thing between your ears and not what's in your trousers, boyo. The second he knows you're a vampire you're done. He's still the Chosen One. You'll end up on my de-fanging list._”

I have to cut my sandwich into pieces with a knife. The steak's so thick I can't fit my mouth around it. (She'd have a thing or two to say about that thought, too.) (_“Basil, you cad.”_) I text her back and say she'll hear if anything happens. I've been saying it all week, and nothing else has.

If we can have tomorrow with nothing, too, that would be grand.

Me and Simon and a day to ourselves.

Then I'll tell him.

  
  


**SIMON**

I pull my phone out under the counter and send Penny a message: _have I been underpaying rent for a year? >:-[_

She writes back straight away: “_I told you when we moved in, Simon. The Coven took care of everything – you have a trust, remember? Don't worry. Need me to come home?”_

I write back: _thats not right penny. how much does baz pay?_

“_Simon Snow. Do you remember saving the world last year? Rent's sorted, believe me. Mum takes care of it.”_

I frown at my phone and put it away. It's not like I thought I was earning enough, working in a café. I'm not _that_ stupid. I didn't see the worth in thinking any further, I suppose. Rent always got paid and months kept rolling by.

I should look for a better job so I can pay for things, and not just let Baz take care of it. (I do think four hundred quid for an umbrella's mad.) (He probably could've got a decent one from the market for a tenner.)

Maybe he'll let me buy the tickets for tomorrow. If he wants to go.

And yeah, I'll definitely buy the coffee.


	8. The Ache

**BAZ**

I sleep in late on Sunday morning.

I never do this at home. It feels decadent, like spreading too much butter on a slice of toast. I'm curled up on my side in bed, watching sunlight stream through the curtains, thinking about how pleasant it is to be alive. (In a fashion.) I went down to the dock at four this morning, feasted on a few rats, and fell back to sleep after tumbling into bed. Simon hasn't woken me up by shouting or tripping over anything, which should have me mildly concerned.

I close my eyes and think, _just one more minute_. The old-fashioned alarm clock I brought from home tells me it's almost ten. This might be the latest I've ever stayed in bed. At Father's house Vera would have barged her way in by now, squawking about turning the covers back to let in fresh air.

It's a knock that wakes me next time.

You could hardly call it delicate – it's more of a demand. Simon Snow, at my bedroom door.

I sit up and take stock of things. My room's tidy – there still aren't many things in here, apart from my books – but the blankets on my bed are tangled, and I'm in my pyjamas. Part of me must want my flatmate to see me like this (Merlin knows what the bed hair situation is like), because I hear my own voice saying, “Come in.”

Simon pokes his head around the door and apologises.

“Sorry. Thought you'd be up.”

“Not at all,” I say, clutching the covers like a maiden in a regency novel. “You can come in.”

He does. He starts poking around at my things, looking inside the wardrobe and running a hand along the windowsill. You'd think he hadn't seen this room a hundred times when Bunce was occupying it.

“It was different when Penny was here.”

“I'm sure.”

I can't help but notice he's dressed. “Going somewhere, Snow?” I ask, waiting for him to pull open one of my drawers so I can frantically smooth my hair. He still hasn't looked at me. He's wearing a slightly nicer pair of jeans than usual, and a t-shirt without any holes.

“I wanted to know if – y'know, I was gonna ask if...you. If you want, we could...”

His sentence trail off into the abyss.

“Use your words, Snow.”

He pushes his chin forward at that – the usual sign of defiance. I'm coming to know it well.

“Have you seen the median line?”

I frown. The what?

“I'm sorry, the...what line?”

“Median line,” he mutters. “It's in the park. Top of the hill. Dead famous.”

I feel my eyebrows rise. (I'm not being cruel. It's just who I am.)

“Do you mean the _Meridian Line_?”

The line responsible for Greenwich Mean Time and other time zones. The line dividing the western and eastern hemispheres. You can buy tickets at the Royal Observatory and have your photograph taken next to it. The museum was closed when I was there (we still haven't talked about those damnable birds), and I haven't had chance to go back.

“Yeah, that,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. Over one arm he's carrying the jacket I bought yesterday. (I threw it through his bedroom door whilst he was heating up a curry last night). “I've never been. Me and Penny were going to go but never got round to it. We could today, if you want.”

I can tell it's difficult for him to ask. (He probably dithered outside my bedroom door for ten minutes, working himself into a fury.)

“Yes, that sounds like a very good idea. Thank you.”

He finally looks over at me, having exhausted every other option in the room. We make a cursory amount of eye contact before he breaks it off and stomps over to the doorway.

“No rush. Whenever you're ready.”

I stretch and begin the arduous task of extricating myself from the bed-sheets.

“Would you like to go for coffee before we walk over there?”

He goes bright red as he escapes through the door.

“Already went out and got it, didn't I? It's in the living room.”

I shout more thanks but if he's feeling anything like I do, he's probably got his head buried under one of the sofa cushions, trying to calm himself down. If I could blush, I would be doing so.

I pick my favourite shirt out of the wardrobe and dress quickly. No need for two hours in the bathroom. All of that can wait.

Simon went for coffee and I don't want it to get cold.

  
  


**SIMON**

Why doesn't he ever look like he just rolled out of bed? (Even when he literally just did.) (For some reason I feel weird imagining Baz rolling out of bed, so I'm going to stop.)

He comes into the living room in a lavender shirt (seriously, it's lavender with sprigs of lavender on it), and black trousers rolled up over shiny shoes. He was only in the bathroom for ten minutes, and when he came out his hair was still soft and in his face, instead of slicked back.

I sit down on the wrong side of the sofa so I can reach his coffee for him, and he has no choice but to sit on my side. He actually sinks into it, which I like. I pass him his drink and he pulls the lid off to inspect it.

“They didn't have salted caramel so I got you roasted hazelnut.”

“It's perfect, thank you.”

“No problem.” I've got a cappuccino with about fifty sugars in it. (I got nervous waiting for his drink.)

He thanks me a lot. He spends way too much money on umbrellas but he's got good manners.

“Are you hungry? There's a shop on the way that sells Cornish pasties.”

He probably thinks all I care about is food (it sort of is), but it's the easiest thing to talk about. Plus, I haven't eaten since the curry last night and I don't normally go twelve hours between meals.

“Are they technically Cornish pasties if they're not made in Cornwall?” he asks, dragging himself out of the sofa ditch and messing with his hair. I get a look at his stomach as his arm goes up. He must be pale all over.

“I dunno,” I shrug, picking up my cup. He gets his coat that's got a hood on its back.

I don't know why anyone would buy something without a hood. Don't you just spend all your time walking around wishing you had a hood? They're not only useful in the rain. If you just want to not look at anyone, it's great. (Or if you don't want to be seen.) (Every policeman who's ever walked past me stops to ask how I'm doing – is that why?)

“If it tastes good, I'll try it.”

“Tastes amazing. Hot meat and pastry, what's not to like?”

“Indeed.”

It's drizzling when we get outside, but we've both got hoods, so I tell Baz not to worry about the umbrella. It's still pretty bright despite the clouds, and he looks happy to be out.

I'm looking at him when I should be looking at the pavement, so I don't see the giant crack before I trip over it.

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon trips and almost smashes face-first into the pavement. I throw an arm out, rescuing him from a broken nose and shattered teeth.

“Cheers,” he gasps, brushing himself off. “Wasn't looking where I was going.”

He seems jittery this morning, and I'm curious as to how many sugars he put in that cappuccino. I'm sipping my latte slowly – a pathetic part of me doesn't want to finish it.

We manage not to get mauled by cyclists as we cross the road, and then we're walking past the market. This way will take us straight past the university, where I'll be going next week to confirm my modules. I'm excited to have something to think about besides my flatmate, because he's driving me mad. (In infuriatingly pleasant ways, mind you.)

I take the lid off my drink and offer it to him. He bites into the whipped cream and steals a mouthful.

Aleister Crowley, I am going to die. (Again.)

  
  


**SIMON**

The queue at the Observatory's not bad. Our tickets also get us into a gallery and we can see something called the Great Equatorial Telescope. We do that first and it's proper cool – apparently it's one of the biggest telescopes in the world and they built it in _Victorian_ _times_. That's well old. If Baz has got a list of favourite telescopes in his head, this one should definitely be on it.

He seems really into it. He says he saw a poster about a nighttime stargazing thing and that we should come back and do it. I don't say no.

I've always liked stars. I can't think of anything freer.

We go outside to the courtyard and join the queue for the Meridian Line. I'm glad we came on a Sunday – a _rainy_ Sunday – because there's only about ten people in front of us, and when it gets to our turn, there's only one other couple waiting behind. So maybe we don't have to just take a picture and go.

Baz walks on one side of the metal line and I walk on the other, looking down at the names of cities. Madrid, New York, Chicago, Ottawa – I've never been anywhere.

The line's wet with rain, and I almost slip. Baz is there again, holding out an arm.

We get to the end and stand by this silver sculpture thing. Baz pulls out his phone – mine's on low battery mode – and offers to take my picture. I hate having my picture taken, but I don't tell him that. I stand around, feeling awkward, trying to smile.

“I'll send it to you later,” he says, and I think that I'll finally have a reply to my smiley face.

“Want one of you?”

He passes me his phone and I get a good one of him standing by the line. (He's way more photogenic than I am. He doesn't look awkward at all.) As I pass his phone back I notice a text pop up from his aunt, Fiona, though I don't see what it says. Whatever it is, it makes Baz frown. (But he does that a lot, so maybe it's nothing.)

We shuffle about until we're on opposite sides of the line again, and then I'm standing across from him, looking up at his face. The drizzle's still coming down but the clouds have started to break – it's brighter than earlier, and I think the sun's trying to come through.

“I'm on the other side of the world,” I say.

He laughs. “So am I.”

“Am I on the west or the east?”

“You're in the western hemisphere, Snow.”

“Cool.”

“Very.”

“And you're in the east?”

“Yes.”

“We're far away.”

“That we are.”

I look around. The couple behind us are waiting patiently. I don't want to step away from the Meridian yet. I like being here, at the centre of everything.

“Baz,” I say, “I'm glad we're here.”

He smiles at me. The breeze blows his hair - he squints and puts his hands in his coat pockets.

“I'm glad, too. It was a very good choice.”

“A good choice,” I say quietly. (More to myself than to him.)

I like making choices. This whole week has been a good choice. And I don't know why, but I can't look away from Baz. He's smiling (I did that) and so am I. We're on opposite sides of the world with this huge, important, defining line between us.

I take a step closer. (_Mind the gap._)

I'm all right, right here, with Baz.

Before I can think about what I'm doing, I reach up and touch his face with the back of my hand. His cheek is cold. I have this sudden ache to warm him.

Baz doesn't move. He doesn't say my name in a concerned way. He just looks at me.

And you know what, I'm not going to think.

I'm going to make another choice.

Leaning into Baz, I lift my head and press my lips against his.

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon Snow kisses me on the Meridian Line.

It lasts a second. It's a whisper of a kiss, a ghost.

I feel his lips, soft and warm against mine (always cold), and then he's gone. He moves back and continues to look at me from beneath those ridiculous curls. He squares his jaw and my eyes find the pulse in his neck, the moles scattered across his face, the deep in the blue.

He's got that look on his face that says _I'm about to overthink absolutely everything and cause a scene, and you'll have to deal with the aftermath_.

Before that can happen, I lean forward and brush his lips with my own.

It's barely contact. The lightest touch.

I can smell him. His blood, yes, but also _him_ – melted butter and cinnamon rolls and that absurd sense of justice he carried around for years spent as the Chosen One.

He hesitates, then kisses me back.

  
  


**SIMON**

I'm kissing Baz.

Baz is kissing me. It's _good_.

I'm not going to think about it. I'm not going to think about him being a bloke, and how we're in public, and that we're definitely holding up the queue.

I want this. I must want it - I made it happen.

I'm going to have this. Just for now. Baz's mouth.

One more minute.

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon's lips warm mine, his breath hot in my mouth. He tastes like coffee and sugar. His hands have found their way into my hair, and mine are on his shoulders, wrapping around the back of his neck.

I've never kissed anyone. I've never wanted to. (I grew up with Vera and various crumbling private tutors well past retirement age: options were limited.)

I want this. I think I've wanted to kiss Simon since I visited the flat all those weeks ago, to face Bunce's interrogation. He was magnetic. In the three weeks before I moved in I thought about him far too much.

And now he's here, his face in my hands, his lips on my own.

Simon's kissing me, and he'll have to be the one to break away, because I never will.

  
  


**SIMON**

The kiss ends slowly. My heart's racing. I've kissed people before – well, _one_ person – and it was never like this.

It was never this good.

When we move away (we actually both take a step back at the same time, like it's choreographed), we can see that the people in the queue are looking at us. They don't tut or say anything. (British people are weirdly polite sometimes, even when they have every right to be annoyed.)

We walk away from the Meridian Line and leave the courtyard. Baz doesn't say anything so I don't, either. I'm still trying to drag my brain out of its _don't think about anything_ mode. (Even though it's kind of nice in here.)

“Baz,” I say when we're walking down the hill. “Was that...?”

We stop walking and he turns to face me. It's not the best place to stop. There's a park bin nearby that's close to overflowing, and two pigeons are picking a fight with a squirrel.

Shit. He doesn't look happy.

Oh.

Maybe I _should_ have thought about that kiss.

  
  


**BAZ**

“Simon,” I say, without knowing what comes next.

I want to kiss him again. I want him to kiss me. That's all I want.

But I need to tell him the truth and let him decide. (If he wants to do it again, or if he ever wanted it at all.) He deserves to have that – a choice.

“I need to tell you something. Can we go somewhere quieter and talk?”

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz is serious. He's thinking about things. (Not in a good way.) (He called me Simon.)

I'm thinking now, too. (Overthinking.) (Also not in a good way.)

“It's all right,” I say, “It's all right, Baz. you don't have to say anything. I was being stupid.”

He looks hurt. It makes me ache again.

“You weren't being stupid. Please, can we talk?”

I shake my head. What's there to talk about? It was _obviously_ a stupid thing to do. No good was ever going to come from that kiss. If I'd consulted Penny first, she'd have called me a pillock and sat me down to take three deep breaths.

We're flatmates, and it's been great this week. I don't want to mess that up. (Also, he's a bloke – a good looking one, yeah, and he's clever and interesting and thoughtful, but...Agatha was a girl, not a bloke.) (Is Baz gay or was it just the Meridian Line?)

“It was a moment,” I say, not looking at him. There's a spot to the left of his head that I'm focusing on, instead. “I don't know...the line, where we were standing, what we said. It just got to me, I guess. Sorry. I didn't mean to...to, well. Y'know.”

He swallows and looks down. (He looks _so_ sad.) (I did that.)

“You didn't mean to.”

“No. Yes. Baz, look, it was a bad idea.”

“You kissed me.”

I feel my shoulders drop. “I know. But, look. It'll mess things up. We're flatmates, yeah?”

His eyes move over my face, then he's looking at his shoes again.

“Yes. Yes, fine. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. I don't want you to be sorry.”

“I am, all the same. All the time. And I need to talk to you.”

It's my turn to look away.

“Please, Simon.”

“About what?”

And then I imagine it. Some sort of complicated conversation about feelings and how we should talk about them in detail. He'll ask me if I'm gay and I'll say I don't know what I am, and then I'll spend the rest of eternity thinking about how what just happened was well gay. (And I liked it.)

He'll bring up my wings and tail and say he hates them. That's why he wants to magic them away.

He'll ask about the Humdrum and I'll say, I'll say..._it's a lot_.

And it _is_ a lot.

It's really a_ lot_. I don't know if I can do it, that kind of conversation.

Before Baz can speak, I say sorry and walk off down the hill.

“Don't follow me,” I say quietly. (I'm saying it to myself.)

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon speed-walks down the hill away from me. I don't follow.

My head's still reeling from the kiss and what came after. All I can see is him shaking his head, telling me it was a bad idea.

I disagree. But I'm not going to chase him.

My phone is vibrating. Vampires are the last thing I want to deal with, but Fiona's messages are becoming increasingly insistent: “_AO not involved. Goblins on the warpath. careful, Basil. Meet tomorrow, 10, swan's head pub”_. Another message pops up as I type a reply_: “Today. Now. are you in Greenwich?”_

I tell her I'm too busy. I'll have to change my shift tomorrow in order to meet her. It's typical of her to confront a gang leader and not think about the mess it causes until afterward.

An old man swerves around me on the path, muttering under his breath about youths. The day is empty now. Simon's presumably sprinting back to the flat and I doubt he wants me there.

I tried. I tried to give him everything. I was going to tell him.

The rain's coming down. Our umbrella's in the flat. I pull the hood up on my coat and walk down the hill. I'm on my way to the Tube situation (destination: anywhere) when I remember the photographs on my phone. I send Simon his photo (he's almost smiling). His phone's so old, it'll probably take the last dregs of battery life to open it.

I'm walking through the park gates when I get a reply: “_baz. im sorry.”_

What for, Simon? I write: _Don't be._

“_i need to know_”

My chest heaves. _What do you need to know?_

What you are.

His reply: _“are you hungry?”_

I sigh and step out onto the pavement.

_I suppose so._

“_pizza”_

That's it. That's the entirety of the message. I roll my eyes and look for him along the road ahead. He can't even righteously storm off without slipping into starvation mode.

“_do you hate me?”_

That one almost breaks my heart. (Do I have one?)

_I don't hate you. _ I can see him up ahead, hunched over on a wet metal bench. His jeans will be soaked through. _I'm here._

He looks up from his phone.

“Forgot about the Cornish pasties, didn't we.”

“Yes, Snow. We did forget about the Cornish pasties.”

“I know a good restaurant. Pizza. Cheesy dough balls.”

“Get up, then. I'll follow you.” (Anywhere.)


	9. The Ascent

**SIMON**

My phone's dead.

In one hand I've got a massive slice of cheesy pizza and in the other hand I've got the dessert menu, because you never know. Cheesecake is rarely a bad idea. Penny and I found this place last year when we first went looking for a flat. I actually included it on the list of reasons why we should move to Greenwich. (The chip shop was also on that list. And the curry house down the road.)

Baz is sitting across from me with his hand over his mouth. His pizza's got every kind of meat I've ever seen on top of it. He tried a bit of mine but said it was bland. (I've had two slices of his because he eats so slowly.)

We haven't talked about what happened earlier, at the Meridian Line. He hasn't thrown a thousand questions at me or told me he hates my wings. He hasn't mentioned the kissing. It'd be a stupid idea to lean across the table and try it again – you know, for research purposes – so I'm stuffing my face full of food instead.

Food never lets you down. Brains do. Even Penny couldn't defeat that logic.

It's not that I didn't like it. (I did.) I just don't know what to do with that information, so I'm eating everything because it's easier.

I wish I knew what Baz was thinking.

He doesn't hate me for messing things up – he said so. Also, he's here.

He'd get up and leave if he wanted to, right?

There's one cheesy dough ball left in the bowl between us. I've eaten eight and Baz has only had one but he doesn't seem interested. I better take it before it gets cold.

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon is eating enough food to feed a small army.

It's impressive. Father would have the housekeepers prepare a four-course meal on special occasions (Christmas and birthdays), but even the Goliath that is Vera let loose upon the kitchen staff could not defeat Simon Snow.

I nudge the bowl that used to contain our appetiser, so he knows he can have the last one.

I'd like to say that watching him demolish an extra-large pizza by himself has helped me know him better, but I remain at a loss. I cannot tell what he's thinking. I'm worried he's trying to eat enough pizza to wipe the memory of our kiss from his mind.

I need to tell him what I am. We've barely said two words to each other since entering the restaurant and the longer the silence stretches, the harder it becomes to break.

Crowley, this is difficult.

We're running out of food, so one of us is going to have to say _something_.

Simon clears his throat.

  
  


**SIMON**

“Baz. Do you think that waiter's a bit weird?”

He turns in his seat to look where I'm pointing. I take the opportunity to steal one of his pizza crusts. A kid in one of the homes growing up used to pull my hair and say it was curly because I ate too many crusts. He made the dinner lady cut the crusts and corners off his toast in the morning. So wasteful.

The crust's the best part.

Baz is looking at a tall, thin waiter with a pale face who's hanging around by the bar. He wasn't there when we came in - I'm sure it was a shorter bloke with black hair. This one's blond and a bit ill-looking, if I'm honest. He's wiping inside a wine glass with a dirty rag, staring at me and Baz.

“What do you mean?”

“He keeps staring at us. Hasn't served any customers.” To be honest he's staring at Baz, not me, and it's getting annoying.

Baz grunts. “Sound's about right for London table service.”

“He could be a vampire. Look at how pale he is.”

Baz is pale, but this guy looks like he's rolled about in talcum powder before coming to work.

“Is paleness the only prerequisite for a vampire?” Baz snarls. I'm not sure what a prerequisite is, so I shrug.

“Snow,” Baz says, still watching the pale man and reaching inside his trouser pocket. His coat's drying on the back of his chair. I'm trying not to move too much because every time I do, my shoes squelch. “Look at his reflection in the wine glass.”

The waiter's distracted by a customer. I look: green skin, red lips. _Goblin._

Baz is rolling his shoulders back, sighing at the ceiling. “Have you _really_ taken us out to eat at Greenwich's finest _goblin pizza establishment_?”

“Not deliberately.”

“Snow, we ought to go. _Now_.”

I shake my head. “But you're not finished. I thought you wanted to talk.” (_I_ want to talk but I'm crap at starting conversations. I'm generally only good at derailing them.)

“It doesn't matter.” He throws money on the table and starts to pull on his coat. Even though we're about to get attacked by a goblin waiter, he tips well. Also, his shirt's gone a bit see-through where his wet hair's touching it, and I'm trying not to stare.

“We can get a box and take it home. Stick it in the fridge.”

“No, I'm fine. Strangely enough, _goblin pizza_ is not an appetising thought – we're lucky they didn't poison it. Let's go.”

I look over at the waiter again. He's moving between chairs to get to us now, still polishing his glass.

“He's not going to attack us here,” I try. I need to re-tie the laces on my trainers, but my jeans are wet and my legs are too heavy to lift.

“It's looking like he bloody well _will _be attacking us, in short order.”

I push my chair back and stand up. I can't tell if Baz is angry at me or the waiter. (Or maybe it's just his face.) I take one of his abandoned slices because seriously, am I just going to leave it there to be chucked in a bin? Goblin pizza or not, it's delicious.

Baz is already holding open the door for me, not taking his eyes off the waiter. He's reaching out a hand to us now, smiling and asking us to sit back down. He's got a lot of teeth.

“Awright lads, won't ya stay fer a drink? Cold day.”

“A Cockney goblin!” I whisper. Baz elbows me in the side.

I'm not sure, but I think I see the waiter slip something into Baz's pocket as he twists away. (Why does that make me jealous?) (It's not like Baz is going to do much with a goblin's business card.) Baz squeezes my arm and pushes me through the door, out into the street.

“No thank you,” he says, slamming the door. “When I say run, do it.”

“I don't run from things.” (I'm stalling. I'm far too full to run.)

He's marching me down the road. We're some distance from the flat, and one of my laces is dragging on the pavement. His legs are a lot longer than mine and I have to take twice as many steps to keep up. I do what I usually do when I'm not paying attention – I trip over.

  
  


**BAZ**

“Crowley, Snow, were you born with two left feet?”

“I need to tie my trainers.”

I help Simon up. It costs us precious seconds – the waiter has followed us out of the restaurant, still clutching his wine glass, and is gathering speed.

I glance around. Logically, this cannot be happening. Not even the third-rate vampires Fiona dismisses would be foolish enough to attack a Normal in broad daylight, in a busy London street. And to attack two mages? The great green pillock must have lost its mind.

I steer us down a gap between two clothes shops. Simon crouches to get his laces in order, and I take inventory of our surroundings. There's a large metal bin (overflowing in true London fashion), several flattened cardboard boxes, and a wire fence separating this part of the alleyway from the next. It's hardly wide enough to fit two people, let alone two plus a raging goblin, and I don't expect what's coming to be elegant.

My phone pulses in my pocket. My first message to Fiona would have reached her as we were leaving the table: _Goblin. Romney Road. S & I followed._

She asks which way we're heading, and for our current location. I start to type an answer but my thumb slips off the screen. There's no time. I pull my wand from my coat sleeve and point it at the alleyway's opening. People flit by unaware, none of them sparing our dirty corner a glance. “Snow, do you have your wand?”

He shakes his head at me. “It's in the flat.”

I roll my eyes. “How did you survive this long?”

His face scrunches, as though _now's_ the time for deep thought. “Penny.”

Of course.

There's no time for me to be a jealous schoolboy about things – the waiter has found us, and is grinning with a mouth full of sharp teeth as he approaches, fingers dragging along the walls on either side. He's still tall, pale and blond, but we catch his reflection in a puddle – green and red.

I should be scared for my life. (I _am_ scared for Simon's. He's the Chosen One and I watched him murder a goblin without messing up his hair the other day, but there's something innately vulnerable about him.) (Maybe it's because he's been down there a good five minutes and he _still_ hasn't managed to tie his shoelaces properly.)

This goblin is tall – lanky, even – and stern, with a face like a sack of wet Wednesdays. For a moment I did worry it was a vampire, back there in the restaurant. Fiona only ever brought her work home in bits (or body-bags), and though she keeps on cordial terms with a few of England's more well-connected vampires, she hardly invites them in for dinner. I've never been up close and impersonal with one, aside from myself.

Fiona doesn't want to kill _every_ vampire in the country. At least, she doesn't want to do it all at once – she says if the old vampire gangs are gone, something darker might rise in their place. Plus, she'd be out of work. _Better the dark creature you know, Basil_, she said to me once, in front of Father. He crossed her name off the family Christmas card list.

Simon's on his feet now, eye to eye with our stalker. The goblin grins and throws his glass; it smashes on the wall next to my head. Shards rain over me and Snow, and I realise too late what's going to happen.

Bacon, cinnamon, butter and blood.

I jerk away so Simon won't see my mouth become a maw.

The goblin reels back, staring at me. “I don't Adam and Eve it...what're you doin' 'ere, all on yer Jack Jones? S'the wrong part of town fer _you_, mate.”

“Cockney goblin!” Simon shouts, fascinated. “What's he saying?”

I grunt and fall back a step, hand over my face.

“Baz,” Simon growls. “Is he a friend of your aunt's?”

“I doubt it.”

It's like being faced with a thousand bloody steaks, all at once. Saliva drips on my shirt collar. Then the waiter's running toward us, my phone's vibrating continuously (I think Fiona's trying to call me), and I'm unaware of anything but the thin red scratches on Simon's cheek where glass has bitten into him.

The goblin charges at Simon, and before I can fire off a spell he's leaping up to meet it halfway, in what's bound to be a messy collision.

Vampires are strong. It's like a double-decker bus taking on a bicycle. Goblins aren't nearly as sturdy, though it's immediately apparent that this one is far more dangerous than the one we fought off before.

But Simon was the Chosen One. _Is_ the Chosen One. And though he seems to think he's the most worthless thing to grace the planet, I know he isn't.

  
  


**SIMON**

One stupid goblin. One stupid, good looking goblin in an alleyway. I used to eat this sort of crap for breakfast. At first I thought it was a vampire – he certainly had the look down right – and I'm almost disappointed it isn't.

I haven't fought that many vampires, all things considered. They popped up every now and again and the Mage would send me off on a mission to put them back underground. This would be easier with the Sword of Mages, but I haven't been able to summon it since last year.

I pick up the stem of the wine glass and wrap my arm around the goblin's neck.

  
  


**BAZ**

Blood. Blood everywhere.

Simon is fighting the waiter, his punches connecting messily. He swings himself up, running a few steps along the wall and pushing himself off to kick the waiter in the back of his knees. A normal person would crumple - the goblin merely staggers against a bin and looks mildly irritated.

“Snow,” I shout, “Get down!”

I point my wand at the goblin's feet and try to set him alight with a _**Hot as hell**_. (It's ironic how good I am at fire magic, given I am as flammable as hairspray.) His ankles smoke but he shakes it off, still trying to pry Simon off his back. I circle behind them, checking to see if we're attracting a crowd – it seems the people of Greenwich are collectively choosing to look the other way. I'm hearing Fiona's voice in my head, telling me to light him up like a bonfire on Guy Fawkes Night. Will that work on a goblin? Simon's a dervish and I don't want to hurt him.

Fire kills most things. Fire would kill me.

“Baz, shit - watch out!”

I duck under Simon's flailing arm and stagger back against the wall. He trips the goblin and pushes him into the metal bin. I can hear him complaining about nappies and dog shit – this might be the only chance we have. I move past Simon, who's poised to dive into the bloody thing after him (_honestly_, Snow) and raise my wand again: “_**A burning desire!** _”

The bin, and everything in it, goes up in flames. The goblin waiter doesn't scream. There's no doubt we'll attract attention now – I imagine Londoners have the capacity to ignore a bin fire for two minutes, at most. I tuck my wand away and turn to face Simon, who's breathing hard against the wall, hands on knees.

His wings are out. The tail's there, too, curled around one ankle. He looks up at me and jerks back.

I've forgotten about my fangs.

Simon's mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are flicking between me and the burning bin as though we're one and the same. (We might as well be.)

“Baz, you – you're...”

“Please. Please leave.”

He says nothing.

“Leave me here, Simon. _Please_.”

If there was ever a time for him to stomp off, it's now. (But he doesn't.)

I am tempted, for a moment, to turn and throw myself into the bin fire. Become ashes and be done with the rest.

Perhaps Simon sees that thought cross my mind, because he's suddenly pushing away from the wall and holding out his hands. “You'll catch fire,” he croaks (the alleyway's filling with smoke). He wraps his arms around my waist.

Then his wings flap and we're flying up out of the alleyway. In the distance are sirens.

I fasten my arms around his neck and try not to breathe.

  
  


**SIMON**

I'm not sure where we are. On a roof, somewhere. I can't see our street, but the river's there, so we're not far from home. I'm kicking at a loose slate with my shoe, wondering how many pieces it'd break into if I knocked it off. I don't do it because I don't want to break things.

Baz is sitting on the pointy part of the roof, one leg on either side, backed against a chimney. He's pale and smoky. His teeth (fangs?) are normal now, but I saw them in the alleyway. His face looked...stretched.

Fuck.

He's a vampire.

That's...interesting.

The only thing I know about vampires is how to kill them. They're evil - they drink blood. They're illegal - that's what I was always told. The Mage sent me on missions to keep them in their place. (In a coffin.) (Would Baz sleep better in a coffin?) Baz's aunt is a hunter for the _ Coven. _She literally gets paid to light them up. Nobody ever paid me.

But...

It's _ Baz _.

He likes classical music and plays the violin.

Nearly all of his shirts are flowery.

He spends three hours in the bathroom doing his hair.

There's a list of bridges in his head.

He's going to study English literature at uni, and he knows the true value of curry sauce.

He was sitting in a pile of dead birds because he killed them and drank their blood...I get that now. My secret girlfriend theory's out the window. And he sneaks out at night to find other things to eat, but...is that really so different from normal people? I mean, I get up in the middle of the night for a snack too, sometimes. It's the same thing, except I don't always tear the wrapper (skin) open with my teeth.

He hasn't hurt me.

That's important.

It's not like I'm a difficult target. I'm always sitting on the sofa, or lying on the sofa, or sleeping on the sofa. I might as well carry a flashing sign around that says NECK VACANCY. If Baz is really a dark creature, wouldn't he have killed me by now? I know I'm not what I used to be, but it'd still make a pretty good headline: _ Chosen One defeated. Coroner's verdict: Death by flatmate. _

He told me to leave him when I saw his teeth, but he didn't leave me when he saw my wings. (Again, what's the difference?)

  
  


**BAZ**

Simon crawls to me across the rooftop. There are several points at which I fear he's going to fall to his death, but he somehow defies gravity and makes it to the chimney. He sits opposite me, mimicking my pose, with legs hanging down either side of the roof. It's not comfortable but I don't imagine we'll be up here for much longer.

“I read a news story once about this burglar who escaped through a window and got onto the roof of a house,” he says, tugging at his hair. “He was up there all day, and the police couldn't get him to come down, so in the end they had to go and buy him a burger.”

“What happened?”

“Well, he had to come down eventually, didn't he? They arrested him. The point is, if we stay up here all day we're going to get hungry. And I don't think the police will be too happy buying _this _a burger.” He's pointing at his wings as though they're the worst things currently occupying this rooftop. (They're not.)

“I'd spell them off for you but I can't imagine how else we're going to get down.”

He smirks at that. Our eyes meet and he looks away, rubbing at his cheek with a filthy hand. We've just killed another goblin, and I'm under no illusions – he didn't do it for me. He did it because that's what he _ does_. It was automatic. If he hadn't seen my fangs, I probably would have got away with another lie. (“_I must be a bad tipper, Snow. _”)

“Are you going to turn me in to the Coven?” I ask.

“What? No. If your aunt can resist killing you, I can too.”

I'd laugh at that but it hurts too much.

“Why won't you leave?” I whisper.

_Leave me here. Please._

He mumbles something into his palm and stretches. (Is he _ yawning_?) (Is there _ anywhere _ this man can't take a nap?)

“What was that?”

“I said I left my key in the flat, didn't I? If I leave you I can't get in.”

“You flew us up onto a roof because you _forgot your key_.”

“Yes.” He shrugs. “And...it was dangerous.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Simon...”

“I don't fly a lot. Ever, really. But it felt like the best thing to do. In the moment.”

“Simon, please -”

He shakes his head. “No, Baz, listen. I just...look. Do you hurt people?”

The question shocks me. I never have, I never would. But given my irregular nighttime behaviours, how could he know that?

“No. I've never bitten anyone.”

What I don't say: _ It's horrible, sometimes, how much I want to bite you. _

“And you're not...tempted? I mean, say, in the evening. When we're watching telly.”

This conversation needs to end. (I'm a coward.) “I would never bite you, Snow. You don't need to worry about that. I get enough to drink elsewhere.”

“You've been calling me Simon today. I like that better.”

“Noted.” (Really, is now the time?)

He shifts his weight so he can reach one of his feet. The lace is fraying off – it must have caught on one of my fire spells. “So when we were in the park and there were those birds...you'd eaten them?”

“Drank their blood. Yes.”

“And you were embarrassed.”

I fix him with a sharp look. “I'd say _ ashamed _ was more the word, Snow. I didn't want you to find out. In case you haven't caught on yet, I've been lying to you for weeks.”

He doesn't look away. Behind him, his wings flutter in the shredded remains of his jacket. “I've got a couple of things to be ashamed of.” His tail unwinds from one leg and flicks between us. (He's ridiculously dramatic sometimes.)

“You don't have anything to be ashamed of.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you do not.” I sigh and wave my hands at him. I feel singed and ashy. I'm also aching for blood, but that part's best left unmentioned, given recent events.

“So you drink birds' blood.”

“Sometimes. I've been going to the old docks for rats, lately.”

He pulls a face and gags. “Rats? Ugh, _ Baz_, fuck no!”

“Blood is blood, Snow. Would you rather I drain a toddler? A wayward pensioner?”

“No, but – _rats_?”

I rest my head against my knees, drawing them into my chest. I don't have the energy to defend my meagre dinner options at present. My phone's gone off a dozen times since we came up here, and I dread to think what an earful I'm going to endure from Fiona later. (I wonder if our bin fire made the news.)

“Do you eat swans?”

“Crowley, Snow, no! _Swans?_ That's an awful thing to say.”

“Can't you bite things but, like, _not_ kill them?”

“What?”

“You know. A sip. They live, you live, everyone's happy.”

“I didn't realise you were such an expert on vampires.”

He puffs out his cheeks. “I'm not. I'm just trying to help.”

I sneer. “Thank you for that.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

My eyes roll back into my head.

He's quiet for a moment. Then the critical question arrives. “When did this happen?”

I can't keep up with my own lies anymore, so I tell the truth. “I was...a child. The attack at Watford...I was there, in the nursery. That's another lie I've told you, Snow – I _have_ been to Watford, though I don't want to remember it.”

He's frowning. “I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault.”

“No need. It's hardly your fault, either.”

“But your mum...”

“I'm aware of what became of my mother, Snow.”

He's chewing his lip. “She'd be proud of you. You don't hurt people.”

I shake my head. “She wouldn't.” _She'd rather I burn._

My aunt doesn't believe that. If she does, she doesn't let me see it.

“Does your dad know?”

I bite my lip. “My _condition_, as he would put it, is one of the reasons we agreed I'd best move out.” I remember the text message Simon sent to me earlier. It's my turn to ask. "Do you hate me?"

He doesn't hesitate. "No."

He reaches over and touches my leg with his hand. For a moment I feel a flicker of heat, as though he's going to burn us both up, right here. My nostrils fill with smoke - it's his magic, the remains of it, what was left after the Mage and the Humdrum and the rest of the world took their fill.

How did I think I could live with him without hurting him?

How did I think I could live with _ anyone_, when I am what I am?

I wait for him to say it. _ Move out. Go back to where you came from, vampire. _

“What can I do?” Simon whispers instead, waiting for me to lift my face again. He's terribly earnest. (I can't look away.) “That's what you said when you saw my wings. Before anything else, you wanted to help. So what can I do, Baz? You might as well tell me, because I'm not leaving you.”

Oh, Simon. Look at us.

What messes we are.

_We match._

“Let's go home,” he says, tugging at my wrists. “It's Sunday – there'll be football on this afternoon.”

I can't believe he's going to _ do _ this. Take his vampire flatmate home and watch Tottenham vs Everton, like none of this has happened. Like I haven't lied to him, like I haven't brought murderous goblins down on his head.

I can still feel his arms around my waist, his lips against mine. He's pulling my wrists and I need to fall into it because if I don't – if I pull back – something might break.

And Simon doesn't want to break things.


	10. The Answer

**BAZ**

“You're moving back to Hampshire, boyo. Or in with me again. Make a choice.”

“Here's my answer - _sod off._”

I'm with Fiona in a dingy pub called the Swan's Head. I made her promise me it wasn't a vampire pub before agreeing to meet her here - it's just the sort of inappropriate jape she'd find hilarious. She's bought me a lemonade, though I've barely touched it. (It's too fizzy.) I'm watching her neck a pint of Guinness, instead.

“Baz, have you been listening? Two goblin attacks and you've only been here a fortnight."

"I do not care. I'm not leaving. My room's the way I like it."

"I told your father," she says, fishing out her phone and scrolling for a message. "He wants you to keep in mind that _Vera didn't raise you for the best part of two decades to see you stabbed to death in a grotty London alleyway by a waiter with a wine glass._ _It would be unbecoming of a Pitch._" She puts her phone away and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. "Anticlimactic, too, if you ask me."

I scowl across the table. “Gracious of Father to admit he didn't raise me himself, but even so. I am not going back to Hampshire, Fiona, and I am not moving in with you. Also, do not light that thing in here - you do know about the smoking ban, don't you?”

She rolls her eyes at me. I learnt that particular talent from her.

After returning to the flat yesterday, I found a small card the waiter must have slipped into my coat pocket – plain white, cheap, with an embossed design of the local vampire gang's logo: _ **the A O, est. 1873**_. On the other side was a message: _ Regards to Fiona Pitch_. I sent her a photo of it last night, and give her the original now.

I can only assume the goblins intended for the card to be found on my corpse after the waiter had killed us both. Their plan was deviously simple: make it look as though vampires had taken out the local hunter's nephew. Commence Third World War: vampire hunter edition.

“The AO's leader is called Long Harold. He was grateful we didn't fall for the goblins' bullshit. As long as they stay away from you, their gang gets a temporary reprieve.”

“_Long __Harold_? And what do you mean by grateful?”

“Harold's a traditional name, Basil, much like your own. The long part I can't account for - he's five-six, at best. Anyway, I shook him up a bit last night, after you sent me the picture of the business card. Reminded him where he stands in the grand scheme of things. He expressed an interest in recruiting you and I told him where to stick it.” She smiles sweetly. "Politely, of course."

"Does he know where we live?"

"No, so don't go around advertising it - keep your rooftop romances to a minimum, boyo."

I groan. I think about Snow in the restaurant, almost fooled by the goblin's vampire disguise. I'm trying to limit mentions of my flatmate – Fiona still seems to be expecting a running narrative on his daily activities.

“I'll take care of it. The goblins went too far yesterday. I have a meeting with the Coven this week about their removal.”

“You're going to immolate the entire goblin nest?”

“Got to find it first, but needs must, Basil. At the very least they need relocating. The Coven doesn't see why not, and after yesterday, neither do I. It may have only been a couple of rogue goblins, but where one goes others will follow.”

I frown. It's not like her to speak in clichés.

“Don't look so sad about it. It'll be a good payday for me and the lads. A nice change of pace, too.”

I watched two goblins die. Is that how I'm going to go out one day? (Hopefully not in a burning bin down an alleyway in Greenwich.) Again, my reaction to events was delayed. Simon and I both took showers to wash out the smell of smoke, then sat down to watch the football match. (He fell asleep before halftime.) I sat in the chair, hands shaking in my lap, unable to concentrate. Eventually I gave up and went out to find a few rats. It was careless, not even full-dark.

Simon's at college this morning. He's supposed to go to work this afternoon, so I won't see him until tonight. He wanted to come with me to the pub but I can't think of anything I want less than for him and Fiona to be in a room together. I'm not ready for my two worlds to collide, just yet.

She finishes her pint, scraping together enough to pay for our drinks.

"Come on, let's get going. I'm dying for a smoke."

  
  


**FIONA**

He's still a thousand miles away.

Pale and drawn and so much like Natasha it's hard to look at him, sometimes. He's a pain to see.

He didn't answer his phone so me and the lads fired off a few locator spells and found them soon enough. A Normal had already called the police, but the Met's response times aren't exactly stellar, so we had time to clean up. We sorted the bin, a few burnt boxes - and blood. There was plenty of that.

As for this one, no sign.

He's here, now. A bit scorched but none the worse for wear. I need him to see that his family can keep him safe. We were fools to think he'd survive in London on his own. He bears the weight of my name, as well as his father's.

He's not on his own, though, is he?

This is his answer. He says he won't leave his flatmate. The Chosen One, the Mage's Heir. (Though he's not so much the latter these days.)

Baz was born trouble, and he's got no better as he's grown.

Whoever thinks they can send _waiters_ after this boy have got another thing coming.

  
  


**BAZ**

Fiona says she'll see to things and that I am resolutely not to worry. I a_m_ worried that she will follow me home one of these days and accost Simon, but I don't tell her that. (I don't want to give her any ideas.)

“Sure you don't want to sit in on the Coven meeting? You can take me to the pizza place and we'll see what little green things pop up.” she smirks, flicking a thumb over her lighter.

“Absolutely not.”

I've seen enough goblins in recent days. They do not appeal to me.

“How about the Chosen One, won't he do the Coven one last favour?”

I won't lie – I've thought about it. After seeing Simon in action, there's no doubt he's capable. _(Beyond _capable. The man's a menace.)

But I shake my head - I must. It stings knowing that Simon would say yes automatically, if asked to invade a goblin den on his own.

I don't want that for him. He's done enough for the Coven, for the Mage. For all of them.

“Go to uni, go to work, live your life,” Fiona says. “And bloody well call me if anything happens, all right? No more leaving your phone on vibrate, Basil. I want a distinctive ringtone and daily check-ins, else I'll bring all hell down on your front door.”

I give my obeisance and say my goodbyes. Rat blood is sloshing in my stomach, and I'd much rather go home and lie down than face a shift at the bookshop, but my aunt is right. I cannot allow life to be disrupted. Not when it's finally beginning.

Returning to Hampshire means never leaving again. It means remaining under Father's careful watch and existing on his terms. It means not being myself, ever, when company's underfoot. (Company is _ always _ underfoot; he might as well install a bloody revolving door.)

It means not living with Simon.

If he had half the brains he ought to possess, he'd order me out on the streets. He would have left me in the alleyway to burn. But last night, when I returned from the dock, he spoke through his haze of half-sleep from the sofa.

He asked me to stay.

  
  


**SIMON**

College was fine. Interesting. The lecturer was going on about the Channel Tunnel and how long it took to build - the more I think about it, the more amazing it is. A tunnel under the sea. A tunnel between countries. You can get on it in Dover or London and come out in Calais or Paris. Penny always said that one day we were going to get passports and go to Paris for the weekend, but we never did.

I think a tunnel like that is a lot like a bridge. It makes the world smaller. It minds the gap.

I caught the bus back into Greenwich so I can walk around the shops before going to work. I was going to head to the market to buy an iced bun but I've had a better idea. (Well, _ better _ is debatable.) (I've had an idea, let's put it that way.)

Baz asked me if I wanted him to move out. I don't. I said he'd better not because then I'd have to look for another flatmate, and Penny isn't here to help. I'd end up with a Stanley or a Marvin or something worse, like a vampire who definitely_ doesn't _ drink rat blood. (Or a numpty. They're right pains.) He had to meet his aunt this morning - she blew up his phone all last night. He reckons she's going to kill us both for what happened yesterday. (He actually used the word _eviscerate_, which I had to Google, and - ugh.)

We didn't make the news. Not even the local news - bins, goblins, fires, wings and things - none of it got a mention. That's for the best. Penny will have a fit if she looks online and sees my mugshot.

Baz says I should start wearing a cross around my neck, but I don't think I'm at a point in my life where I want to start owning random bits of jewellery. _ “You haven't bitten me yet and I don't think you're going to. I trust you.” _

And you know, even though life's been a lot more dangerous since he moved in (I'm definitely not meeting my usual telly quota), it's also been quite good. I mean, yesterday was _ great _ until the waiter tried to kill us. Great pizza, great dough balls, weather was shit but that's to be expected, and in the morning at the Observatory...when he...we, I mean. Well. That was good, too.

Penny's meant to call me in the morning. (My morning? Her morning? Fuck time zones.) There's a lot to tell her.

I find the shop I'm looking for and pull open the door. A lady's coming out with two kids and fifty million shopping bags, so I hold it open and let them through. It's cold today – no rain, just cold – and I'm glad to step inside.

A man behind the door asks me what I'm looking for. (Do I look _that_ out of place, or is this his job?)

“History,” I answer. “I think.”

“Well, if you're sure, it's on the second floor. Stairs on the left, or there's a lift at the back.”

I smile and knock a few hardbacks off a table. I bend down to pick them up: _Notable _ _ Bridges of Great Britain_.

I mean, you can't make it up.

  
  


**BAZ**

I'm on my own in Medieval History, lingering over a book about the Norman conquest, when a customer catches my eye.

He's dressed in black – band t-shirt over jeans – with a faded grey hoodie hanging off one shoulder. If I couldn't tell by the clothes alone, the puzzled look on his face would be enough.

Simon Snow, here in the bookshop.

He sees me in the corner and walks over, checking over both shoulders as though the books might leap down from their shelves and attack him. (Please don't hurt the books, Simon.)

“Hello,” he says, breathlessly. He must have spelled his wings off himself this morning. His tail's alive and kicking, though invisible, knocking a volume about knights to the floor.

“I've got it, Snow.” I rearrange the display table and look him up and down. I must admit to being slightly flustered – my hair's in my face and he's in _here_, holding a book. It's all a bit much.

“How was college?”

“Good,” he says, peering at the shelves. “Did they have bridges in Medieval England?” He creases his brow. “I wonder how they crossed rivers.”

I smile, turning back to the shelf I'm checking. “Have you been learning about bridges, Snow?”

“Yeah, and tunnels.”

“Oh?”

“Did you know you can go to France on a train?”

“Yes, I was aware. The Eurostar's been operating a good while.”

“Mad, though, isn't it? How easy it is to be somewhere else.”

This strikes me as oddly contemplative, and I turn to frown at him. (Does he wish he was somewhere else?) My eyes fall upon the book he's holding against his chest. “Found something you like?”

He looks at me and blinks. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Can I see?”

His cheeks are red so I'm expecting something ridiculously endearing like _ 50 Ways to Make the Best Pizza of Your Life _ or _ Civil Engineering for Reluctant Beginners_. But it's a book from the Local Interest section on the ground floor, near the front doors.

“_A Loiterer's Guide to __Urban Wildlife in London,_” I read aloud, feeling my own face attempt to catch colour. (I gorged myself last night. I deserve this.)

“Baz,” he gasps, turning the tables. “Are you _blushing_?”

“No,” I snap, spinning to rest my head against the bookshelves. (I'm trying not to cry.)

Simon shuffles about, trying to look at my face, and I move to block him. He gives up and huffs. “I just wanted to help. You can't eat _ rats_, Baz.”

“Say that again a bit louder, Snow. I don't think the customers in the Philosophy section heard you.”

“Sorry. But...look, there are all sorts of things in London. Blackbirds, thrushes, herons, hedgehogs, mice, rabbits, deer...there are red deer in Greenwich Park, Baz, did you know that?”

I turn around, somewhat more composed. “Yes, but there are only a few, Simon. If I kill _ one _ deer it'll be noticed. Do you want me to become an _ urban legend_?” My toes curl at the mere thought of it. "And I am never going to drain a _hedgehog_, you monster."

“Yeah that'd be pretty painful, wouldn't it?” He's flicking through the book. I'd say it's also pretty painful how thoughtful he is. (I don't deserve it.) “I'm going to get this book, Baz. We'll find something.” He smiles at me and the last pillar of resolve in my chest crumbles.

“Thank you.”

“No worries. Flatmates, right?”

“Right.”

“Your problems are my problems?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“There we go.” He starts digging in his pockets and pulls out the tattiest twenty pound note I've ever seen in my life. (That thing has _lived_. That ratty bit of paper could tell _stories_.) “Want me to bring you a sandwich home from work?”

“I was rather thinking I'd cook tonight, for a change.” I learnt a few things, following Vera around the house as a child. I can make a decent stew, and if I purée some of the vegetables, maybe Simon won't realise he's eating them. After the solid stream of fat and carbohydrate we've been living on for two weeks, I'm determined to get at least one vitamin into his system.

Simon looks crestfallen. “Oh. All right.”

“For two, Simon. I would be cooking for both of us.”

His mood brightens instantly. “Really? That's great. Thanks.”

“You're most welcome.” (He really thinks I'd let him starve.)

“See you later, then,” he says, taking a step back and knocking more books off the display. He makes a scene trying to pick them up, and I wrest them from his hands before one ends up defrocked from its dust jacket. He laughs quietly, eyes flicking down to my chest. “Nice name badge.”

I can't possibly still be blushing. The manager insisted I use my full first name on my name badge (apparently 'Baz' is too juvenile and not suitable for a serious bookseller). It says TYRANNUS P in slanted capitals.

“Tyrannus P,” he giggles. “And they stick you in the history section with all the tyrants.”

“That's tyrannous,” I sigh. “With an 'O'. It's a different word entirely.” Secretly, I'm impressed.

“Close enough.” He walks off, still grinning, holding that blasted wildlife book above his head like a trophy. “See you at home.”

I turn back to the shelves and rest my head against them once again.

Simon wants to help me. He's taking the whole _your flatmate's a bloodsucking creature of the night _revelation remarkably well.

These shelves will have to hold me up because my knees damn well won't.

  
  


**SIMON**

Baz makes this bowl of _ stuff _ for dinner. It's delicious. When I get in from work the whole place smells of it – I think he's used some of every herb and spice in the kitchen, but it's good. Not too much of any one thing. He hasn't even put any meat in – it's all vegetables. He found proper French bread at the market and we're tearing through a baguette like it's nobody's business.

I ask if I can see his fangs (he's still covering his mouth) and he calls me a blight.

“Do they stick out for bread? Or do they only want meat?”

“Can you _hear_ yourself?”

He says he'll play chess with me later, after he's spelled the living room tidy. He's sitting on the sofa with me, feet kicked up and legs curled to one side. (I'm only half-watching the telly, let's put it that way.) He must've put his pyjamas on immediately after getting in from work, and he looks all silky and relaxed. (If I tried cooking in my pyjamas, I'd ended up with stains _ everywhere_.)

I'm thinking about yesterday in order, events running through my head from start to finish like I'm watching a film. My head gets a bit stuck on the Meridian Line, then we're moving forward again until it gets stuck on the pizza. Then it gets stuck on Baz's fangs, but only for a moment.

Then we're on the roof, looking at each other. Talking. Even though we were all smoky, the air felt clearer.

I'm glad yesterday happened. All of it.

Baz still isn't thrilled about the goblin waiter part - he tells me that his aunt's going to take care of it but we both need to be careful. I'm a bit gutted because that probably means the pizza restaurant is going to close, but maybe that isn't the main thing I should be taking away from all this.

“Do you need to go out tonight?”

Of course I'm curious about Baz. I'm living with a posh vampire. He hasn't said much about it so far, but I want him to know that I'm here. That I'm not going anywhere. “_Great snakes, Simon_,” Penny would say. “_How do you_ always_ manage to find trouble?” _(I tried insisting once that trouble finds _me_, even when I don't particularly want it, but she didn't believe me.)

“Yes, later,” he says slowly, looking over to see my reaction.

“I'll come with you. I can bring the book.”

“Crowley, Simon, _no_. We are not going on a midnight walking tour of edible London.”

“Why not?”

“I do not want you to see me like that.”

“I've seen you eat spaghetti bolognese, Baz. It goes _everywhere_.”

“That is not the same thing and you know it.”

At least he called me Simon.

We both go back to the programme. We're into the third series of _ Peaky Blinders _ now. I'm already thinking about what we should watch next. Or maybe I should fire up the PS4 and try to get him into _ Call of Duty_? He'd probably be good at it. He's really good at most things.

The episode ends and I'm thinking about Penny and Agatha, for some reason. About school. Everyone says they're the best years of your life but I wouldn't do it again. No more Humdrum, no more missions. I'm here, now.

Yesterday I told him we were flatmates and I don't want to mess that up.

But I'm thinking about kissing him again, and if finding out he's a bloody _vampire_ doesn't stop me from wanting to do that, then what will?

Does kissing your flatmate always mess things up, or can it make things better? Is there an answer to that question?

Can I have this one thing and not have to worry about everything else?

Can I find out if Baz wants this too?

  
  


**BAZ**

I've never seen Simon press the back button on an auto-play countdown before, but clearly there's a first time for everything. I'm on his side of the sofa, warmed by the stew we ate, listening to the chip shop owner thump about below us. My fangs have retracted, and if I don't think about yesterday, everything feels almost normal.

Simon's shifting on the sofa, leaning in to me. I know what he is (sort of) and he knows what I am (at last).

I'm about to ask him what his plans are for this week - it seems he isn't going to be searching for a new flatmate - when I feel his hand on my cheek, like yesterday morning. Something jumps in my chest and I'm suddenly nervous, afraid to look. His hair tickles my nose and when I finally turn, I find his face hovering over mine.

“Snow.”

“_Simon._”

“Simon.”

“Baz.”

“Basilton.”

“What?”

“Nothing. What are you doing?”

“What I want to do.”

“And what's that?”

“This.”

He's leaning over me, and the hand that's touching my face slides behind my neck. His legs move either side of my own, and then he's holding himself up, kissing me. (He's hot and tastes like crusty baguette.) His wings have been out all evening and they're flapping lightly above us, blowing my hair back. His tail hits something on the coffee table, and then it's twining around my wrist. I reach up to touch his back.

I let the kiss happen. I edge into it, slowly, not believing it's meant for me. _ I didn't mean to_, he said yesterday. (Though this second incident seems fairly conclusive.)

He pulls away after a few seconds and asks if he can.

“It's a bit late for that, Simon.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

I reach up for his mouth and then he's pressing against me, his chest against mine, his other hand stroking my neck, shoulder, arm, waist.

“I'm not scared of you, Baz.”

“You should be.”

“Well, I'm not.”

“Yesterday you said you didn't mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“You said you didn't want to mess this up.”

“Does it feel like we're messing anything up?”

“No.”

  
  


**SIMON**

I don't know why I keep wanting to do this to Baz, but I do.

He's under me on my side of the sofa, and maybe that's all it is. _Baz, you're in my context._

Maybe it's because he saw my wings and made me feel like a person, not a thing.

Maybe it's because he sat on the floor and listened and the mess in my head makes a bit more sense, now.

Maybe it's because we're not hiding things anymore and we both still like what we see.

Somewhere, a spoon goes clattering to the floor. This kiss is more substantial than yesterday's, harder, and I reckon part of me should be worried that if I kiss him too much, his fangs might pop out. (Is that how it works?) (I _am_ technically made of meat.) He doesn't push me off so I keep going.

This is it. This is the answer.

And really, this could just be us for the whole night - lying here, snogging – and I wouldn't mind. I was with Agatha for three years and we never got like this. (Most of the time, kissing Agatha was a functional thing. Something to do with our faces that wasn't talking.) (Once, I opened my eyes partway through and she was just staring back at me, like she was thinking about her shopping list or what she fancied for lunch.)

His pyjamas are soft. I bet they were expensive. I've got one hand under his waist now, bunching them up, and I'm wondering how offended he'd be if I put my hand under his shirt (just to see how cold he is there) when my phone goes off in my jeans pocket. By this point I'm lying on top of him, so he gets the full blast too, and then he's cursing into my mouth.

“For the love of Merlin, Simon, are you trying to _kill_ someone with that thing?”

“Sorry. Penny messed with the settings once and now it's permanently on ultra-vibrate. It's so I can't ignore it when she calls.”

“Answer it, please, or throw it out of the window – just make it stop.”

It's Penny, calling from America via Skype. I wonder if something's wrong? It's getting late here so it must be early hours of the morning for her. Or is their time zone behind us? I can never remember. Maybe it's the afternoon.

“Penny's calling,” I say. My mouth's hot. Baz's lips are cold but I'm working on it. “Do you mind if I get this?”

He flaps at me until I climb off him and go into my bedroom.

“I won't be long,” I say.

He scowls. “I'm going to start the programme without you.”

“Fine,” I grin. “Turn the auto-play off.”

He throws a spoon at me but I duck in time.


	11. The Aftertaste

**SIMON**

Penny was stupidly happy on Skype last night. Shep was in the background talking to a couple of Normals, and she kept spinning the phone round so I could meet people.

It was about midday for her – they were in a hotel in Colorado, which she described as being _rampant with skiers_. She was watching a group of lads pre-game before going to a bar. She says she's too young to drink in America so she was being the sober observer. (“_Also, it's the middle of the day and it feels too decadent.”_) She explained “pre-gaming” and it's basically drinking before you go drinking. Which is a normal Friday night in England, so I understood the general idea.

Penny and I would have a drink in the flat sometimes, but we didn't really go out. Large groups of people make me uncomfortable and London's not the best place to be if you want to be alone. Usually she had a lot of stuff to do for her mum. She was thinking about working for the Coven, or becoming a Watford teacher, before she met Shepard and they became obsessed with their road-trip idea.

“_I wish you were here, Simon,_” she said. (She's glowing on this trip, I swear.) “_It's so good to have a change of scenery. I've seen so many mountains this week and I just feel brand new_._”_

“That's great, Penny.”

“_I feel like I could never come home. I will, of course – I must, mum would be so offended if I didn't – but if we just kept on driving...and waking up in new places...Simon, I could do this for a long, long time.”_

“I'm really happy for you. I mean it.”

“_Would you hate it if I didn't come back right away?”_

“If it makes you happy, then it's what I want for you. I miss you but I think I'll survive.”

She laughs at that. (Did she seriously not expect me to survive?)

“_After Yellowstone we're going to the west coast for a few weeks. I've been texting Agatha to see if she minds a visit, but she never replies. Do you two still talk? I wonder if she's all right.”_

“I never hear from her, really. She was always crap at texting back, so I wouldn't worry.”

“_You're right. We'll turn up and give her a fright.”_

“Say hi for me.”

“_I will. After California we're going north. Pacific North West. Apparently the weather's more like home there, so I'll probably fit right in. And we're talking about going to Canada.”_

She's the best. She fits in everywhere she goes, in her own way. “If you go to the place with all the tall trees, can you send me a postcard?”

“_Of course I can. I'll send you postcards from everywhere, actually - that sounds fun. You can start a scrapbook. Can you operate a glue stick without supervision, Simon? America's great so far, but I do miss decent black tea. And jaffa cakes. And sometimes I just want to chat about the weather and not have to explain for the eightieth time where I'm from._”

We talked for hours. My phone died and she made me switch to my laptop. (It's a bit of a dinosaur. It installed Windows 10 on itself and now it's dying slowly.)

I told her about Baz.

Well, I didn't tell her_ everything_ about Baz. I told her about the kissing (“_Simon! That is _ not _ why we put that ad in the paper!”_) and the fighting. She's worried. I told her that Baz's aunt is on the case, so I shouldn't need to go ballistic on any more goblins. (Unless they come to the flat. I'll kill anything that tries to break in.)

“_Want me to talk to mum?”_

“No, Penny, please don't. Everything's fine. Your mum's probably already talked to Fiona.”

“_Fiona? Fiona Pitch?”_

“Yeah, I told you. Baz's aunt.”

“_Meeting the family already, Simon?_”

“No,” I scoffed. “Baz says she'd eat me alive.”

“_I'm worried about you. I leave you alone for two weeks and you're kissing boys and getting followed down alleyways by waiters.”_

“I only kissed one boy, Penny. It's not that bad. Bad news, though - that cool pizza place is closing.”

She wanted to talk more about Baz, but I didn't know what to say. I've only kissed one girl, so overall, I'd say I'm no Casanova. And I don't feel a sudden urge to go out and kiss other blokes.

But I want to kiss Baz.

He fell asleep on the sofa last night. He looked handsome, lying there. I heard him going out to drink while Penny was describing how big American motorways are.

“_Honestly, does anyone really need five lanes of traffic? Anyway, y__ou don't need to have everything figured out, Simon,”_ Penny said. Shepard popped up in the background and started telling me his life story. (Where's Omaha?) She shooed him away. _“Don't overthink things. Get through today and don't worry about more.” _That's what she she's said to me almost every single day since the end of school. Since the Humdrum and everything else._“But be careful.”_

She might panic if I told her about Baz being a vampire. It's one thing to know she's on the other side of the world while I'm _fighting_ dark creatures, another thing if she finds out I'm living with one.

There's a lot I don't know about vampires. I mean, I know Baz has a reflection – he always looks amazing so a mirror _must_ be involved – but what about garlic? Coffins? Bats? I looked in the bookshop for research purposes, but the only vampire books were shitty romance novels and a battered copy of _Dracula_.

Also...I don't think it's my place to say. Baz hasn't told his aunt about my wings, so I'm not going to tell Penny about his fangs. Not yet, anyway. Maybe I'll ask him about it.

“_Don't forget to make your September appointment, Simon.”_

It's good she reminded me. I always forget. I started seeing a therapist after we defeated the Humdrum, and at first I thought it was pointless, but Penny convinced me (read: emotionally blackmailed me) to keep going. It's difficult, but I like the idea of trying to talk to someone who can't judge me. (At least, not to my face.)

“_And send me Basil's Skype ID when you get chance. I have a few thoughts to share with him.”_

“I don't think he's on Skype, Penny. You're better off writing a letter and attaching it to a pigeon. Anyway, what thoughts?”

“_None of your business, Simon Snow_.”

By the time the call with Penny ended, Baz had come back and gone to bed. I went into the living room to find my phone charger and saw he hadn't watched any of the programme without me.

I wasn't brave enough to knock on his bedroom door. (Would that have been brave?)

This morning I was worried he'd act like last night hadn't happened, so I kissed him on the cheek before he went to work. He sneered and said I need professional help. I told him about my therapist and he felt bad.

He thinks it's good that I talk to someone. I'm going to keep making appointments.

We're meeting up later. Today's going so slowly.

  
  


**BAZ**

Today I am living in the past. (The recent past.) (Specifically last night, when Simon attached himself to my face.)

Fiona calls me whilst I'm walking to work to continue her diatribe against the goblins. I think she's looking forward to taking all of her pent-up rage out on them. Once again, I am glad I won't be there to see it. (I'd rather be on the sofa with my flatmate.)

“Won't another problem move in once they're gone? Am I just making Greenwich worse by continuing to exist in it?”

“_Shut your gob, Basil. Something will appear e__ventually, yeah, that's how these things have always worked. It'll be quiet for a time. Any strays nearby won't want to stick their necks out for a good while, in case the Coven's keeping an eye. Which I will be. You'll have to live with it, boyo. Remember – there's an entire world out there. It's not only you and your flatmate.”_

“I will live with it,” I say. (We will.) (And I want the world to wait.)

I thank her for everything. She tells me - verbatim – not to _“get fucking kidnapped or murdered because your family expects to see you at home for Christmas. I'm not going to make excuses for you if you get mauled by another bloody waiter or a rogue numpty, Basilton Pitch.”_

Christmas. It's months away - I haven't been thinking that far ahead. I'm tempted to demand the family come to Greenwich instead, but then I imagine what a mess _that_ would be. (Simon would be a disaster.) (Vera might faint at the sight of the kitchen.) (Father would have to park the Jag at the _kerb_ and it might actually kill him.)

Maybe Simon could come to Hampshire with me for Christmas. That _would_ be a twist. _Hello Father, I've put the presents under the tree. Oh, by the way, this is my flatmate – he's the Chosen One, and current object of my desire. Yes, I'm quite sure he's a man. Can he sit next to me at dinner? _Simon would have to wear a suit and tie to be allowed anywhere near the silverware, and the thought sends blood to my cheeks. (I caught four squirrels last night because his judgmental voice was in my head, and I won't admit it, but they do taste better than rats.)

Fiona wants me to take her to his café today so she can torture him. (Emotionally.) (I think.) I categorically refuse. I haven't told her about us – specifically about the things we've been doing with our mouths – but there's a significant pause in our conversation when she asks what I'm doing tonight, and I'm sure her mind is already working in diabolical ways.

“_He's the Mage's boy. You remember that, mate.”_

“The Mage is gone.”

“_You don't forget what you learn as a child, Basil.”_

“I know. But what comes next must count for something.”

I'm meeting Simon in the city later. He's got a college class after work, whereas I'm free to wander about. I might go to Leicester Square and see what plays are on. We checked out the Observatory's constellation viewings, but they don't start until November. That feels like a lifetime away.

I've sent a letter home requesting my telescope and atlases. I could have called Father to ask, but I'm happy here in this bubble, keeping everything else at arm's length. Plus, he's a stickler for traditional forms of communication. He'd send bloody engraved tablets up the Thames on barges if Royal Mail would allow it.

_"Daily texts, Basil. Don't be a stranger."_

"I won't," I reply, and we say our goodbyes.

My breath mists in the morning air, cold and clean.

Is there a spell to make a day move faster?

  
  


**SIMON**

I meet Baz outside Tortured Bread Artist just after seven. I was at my normal place today, but I still needed to return the umbrella. It's not raining so I got a few funny looks on the Underground, but fuck it. (It's the umbrella's fault that the last two weeks even happened.) (But the umbrella would just blame the rain.) (It's the rain's fault I kissed Baz on the Meridian Line.)

He sees me coming. His hair's soft and wavy, and he's wearing a dark red jumper over a black shirt. It's smart. I went home between work and college and nearly put on a shirt with buttons. (_Nearly_.) (I own _one_ shirt with buttons.)

He's carrying his new umbrella, touching the metal tip to the floor every time he takes a step. In the other hand he's got a paper bag from one of those fancy shops in Covent Garden. He looks like he should be ordering scruffy repairmen around a country estate. (Wait. Am I the repairman in this scenario?)

“Hi.”

“Good evening, Simon.”

“What's in the bag?”

He pulls out a folded paper map of London.

“What's that for?”

He puts it away and turns from me. “I thought we might put it on the wall in the living room. Mark off the places we go.”

_Places we go. _ I can't help but grin at that. The latest idea in my head is to hold Baz's hand, but I don't know if I've got the nerve. It _is_ getting dark now, so maybe people won't notice we're both blokes. I know what Penny would say: _“Nobody cares, Simon. London's full of everything. Everyone's different and everyone's the same.” _We sort of had that talk this morning – Baz is all kinds of gay and I'm all kinds of tragic – and I reckon he'd be up for it. Holding hands. If I find the nerve.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

I want to follow this vampire around London.

He's not a vampire. (Well, yeah, he _is, _but still.) He's my flatmate.

Baz turns us around and starts heading toward one of the main roads. “What do you say to getting the major sights crossed off first?”

  
  


**BAZ**

I'm still not the most confident Tube traveller, but there are only a couple of stops to the destination I have in mind, and I get us to Embankment in one piece. It's a short walk to the river from here, and then we're going south, weaving between fellow pedestrians, watching cyclists zip by with their flashing lights.

“Nice night,” Simon remarks, ignoring the shouts of a man selling **I♡LDN **hats and scarves_. _“Had a good day?”

“Yes, though my aunt rather wants to meet you. I had to talk her out of following me here.”

“Is she that bad?”

“She's terrifying, Snow. Her exact words were _I could murder a pint and I could murder your flatmate, in that order._”

“Oh. Did you tell her about us?”

“No.”

“I told Penny last night.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course you did. Did she have any sage advice for you?”

“_Don't seduce people you meet through the classifieds section, Simon._”

“Fair enough.”

Across the river we can see the London Eye, all lit up. The glass compartments are filled with people and they rotate slowly over the city, shapes reflecting in the water. I take a photo on my phone for the sake of saying I've been here, and Simon almost loses his device to the river in his attempts to do the same.

“All right there, Snow?”

He looks pained. “Fine. Just a bit hungry.”

We take a detour into a shop so he can buy a banana (feeding him vegetables has, at least, reignited his interest in things that don't necessarily come sealed in plastic packets). I do not have the self-control to watch Simon eat a banana without encountering fiendish thoughts, so I walk a few steps in front of him. I can see our target ahead.

“Is that Big Ben?” Simon asks, craning his neck to look up at the clock tower.

“Yes – although that name refers to the bell, not the tower – and _that _is the Palace of Westminster.”

“I know it's the bell. Where's the palace?”

“Right there, next to the massive clock.”

“I thought that was the Houses of Parliament?”

I sigh. He's lovely. “Parliament's inside the Palace, Simon. It's a large building.”

“Oh, cool. Ever thought about being a tour guide? It's like going for a walk with spooky Wikipedia.”

I frown. What else can I do?

We cross and walk along Westminster Bridge, so we can get a good angle for a photo. London looks gorgeous right now, the riverscape a nightmare blend of gothic and new. I love it.

“Want to take a selfie?” Simon asks through a mouthful of banana, tossing the peel in a nearby bin.

“No, I do not.”

“Come on. Use your phone, it's better.”

He raids my pockets for my mobile, smearing banana on the screen with his fingers. I act annoyed but truthfully, I'm delighted to have an excuse to put an arm around his waist. (Also, he can rummage in my pockets any day of the week.) (Kill. Me. Now.) It's been a beautiful autumnal day and neither of us are wearing coats, so I can feel the warmth of his skin through his thin jumper. I pull him close.

I can smell him, all of him and all he is, but I intend to keep my word. I'd never hurt him.

“Do you always show up in pictures, Baz?”

“You must think you're a comedian."

He manages to take a photo that cuts out not only Big Ben, but the vast majority of the bloody huge building behind us, as well as half my face and his own chin. He turns against me so we can both view the disastrous results, scowling as his thumb slides over the touchscreen. I count the moles on his face. I count his eyelashes.

I love this.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Fuck. How do I delete it? Let's try again.”

I put my fingers under his chin and lift his face to meet mine. The plan is to kiss him so he doesn't lose his temper and throw my phone in the Thames.

Cyclists zip by on our left. Double-decker buses, black cabs and other evening idlers, crossing the bridge and leaving us behind. I worry that he'll pull away, but he doesn't. We stand on the bridge and there's no space between us.

We eventually get a decent photo, but it takes us half a dozen more tries and countless other kisses.

And there's no spell that I can think of, no magic I've ever known, that could possibly improve upon this.

  
  


**SIMON**

It isn't that late, when we get back to the flat. I go into the chippy and get us a large bag (with curry sauce) and see how the owner's doing. He says he's glad we're such nice boys living above his shop, not always walking around like elephants with four left feet. (Does he not hear me when I fall out of bed?) I don't know why, but it makes me feel good when he says that. As if I can be a good flatmate, a good friend and a good neighbour, all at the same time.

I'm not just the Chosen One, or whatever I was before.

I'm all this other stuff, too.

Baz is sticking his new map to the wall with sellotape. It takes us ages but we eventually find one of Penny's highlighters and mark off Big Ben, Leicester Square, Greenwich Park, and the area where our flat is. (We have to guess - our street's too small to be named.)

Then we're both pointing at things we want to see. I try to draw his attention to St. Pancras station a few times, because I looked up where the Eurostar goes from and I guess I'm already thinking international. (I can't tell if he catches on immediately and wants to mess with me, or if he's truly that dense.) (We'd have to get a map of France.)

And I know it can't be like this forever. He'll meet friends at uni, I'll stop grunting at people at college, both of us will go out for _work drinks_ at some point, and yeah, life's going to get busier. He has to go out and drink blood most nights and I have to bathe myself in magic just to fit in the bath. We're not your typical flatmates.

But right now it's us and a bag of chips. (And the sofa.) And I like that.

It's not _a lot - _it's enough.

Baz says he can't focus on the telly when the flat's a mess, so he throws out a couple of cleaning spells – _ **Spick and span ** _ and _ **Clean as a whistle** _ – and the living room's soon looking respectable.

Magic hardly makes a dent in the kitchen, so that's how we end up next to each other at the sink on a Tuesday night, washing the dishes. I turn on the oven so we can heat up the chips when we're done. (Baz thinks it's amazing how much I can think about food and not get bored.) (Really, what sort of things does _he_ think about?)

The bathroom's fine. Baz's bottles of cologne and hair products are lined up on the windowsill. I distract him with a question about his deep conditioner, then go running to his bedroom door and poke my head inside.

"Snow, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to polish your violin!"

"You absolute nightmare, _don't you fucking dare._"

His room's annoyingly tidy. I sit on his bed and touch the smooth sheets.

"How'd you do this? It looks like a bed in one of those fake IKEA showrooms."

"It's called _ironing_, Simon."

"We have an iron?"

"Yes, we do. It's in the cupboard above the washing machine."

"Sorry," I laugh. "That's really funny. I can't imagine you _ironing_, Baz."

He rolls his eyes at me until I ask him to play a bit of music. He acts like he doesn't want to, but he definitely does. He's still protesting even when he's got the violin out of its case and under his chin.

"I distinctly remember you calling me a _pasty-faced twat_ on the day I moved in. You told me never to play it in the flat."

"Yeah, well, changed my mind, didn't I? Are you going to play a bit of Mozart, or what?"

He frowns. "There are other composers, you know."

"Pick one, then."

I learn that Baz is brilliant at the violin. He plays this stupidly complicated piece by some Italian bloke. (At first I think Baz says his name is _Panini_ but he reminds me that not everything in life is related to sandwiches.) (It's Paganini, not Panini.)

He brushes it off like it's nothing. It's criminal.

There's a list of things in my head of the things I like most, and Baz playing violin lands solidly in the top five. (Maybe even top three.) He threatens to fill my phone with classical music and I think about how I need to clear my memory card to make space. (For him. I want space in my life for _him_ and all these Italian composers and colognes I can't pronounce the names of.)

The only room that's left now is mine. Baz has never seen it before.

"It's only fair, Snow."

"Yeah. S'pose so. It's shit, though."

"Don't be so glum. It can't be_ that _bad."

He puts the violin away and then we both just look at each other. His eyes are shiny, and I reckon his cheeks are a bit redder than before. I'm still sitting on his bed. On really bad days, when things were hard, Penny and I would climb in here together and watch Disney films on her laptop.

"You ever seen _The Hunchback of Notre Dame? _That's my favourite. It's set in Paris."

"What?" he snaps. "Stop trying to change the subject. I will not be waylaid by animation. Take me to your room immediately."

He realises what he's said and tries to backtrack.

"Too late. Everyone heard it."

"There's only us here, Snow."

"Still. That's everyone."

"Will you ever let me live it down?"

"Nope, never," I laugh, standing up. "Come on, then. _Immediately. _What's French for immediately?"

And then I learn that Baz speaks French. (Of course he bloody does.) He follows me to my room and I can't understand a word he's saying. (He promises it's all very insulting.)

We both hesitate at my bedroom door like this is a big, important thing. The room's not that different from his own, really - a bit smaller, more of an L-shape - but it's had a lot of _me_ in it over the past year. Penny always said my room looked _lived in_, which I think meant _really very messy but trying to be diplomatic about it._ I turn on the light and shuffle through the door ahead of Baz, eyes closed so I won't have to see how ashamed he is of how I live.

"Do I have to formally invite you in? Is that how it works?"

He says something else in French that it's probably best I don't translate.

“Honestly, Simon, it's not too bad. Ninety-nine percent of it is just stuff on the floor. Once we see carpet, you'll feel better.”

I smile into my hands so he won't see.

We don't use magic. We gather up my clothes and put them in the washing basket. I've still got Agatha's old lacrosse hoodie - my wings tore holes in it after work one day, and Penny tried to sew it back together. I should probably throw it out. Pens, sharpeners, rulers all go in the desk tidy. Cracked DVD cases and video game boxes are reunited with their discs and piled on a shelf. (Baz insists on alphabetising them.) Then we throw away all of the sweet wrappers and crisp packets and suspicious crusts, and he's right – I _do_ feel better once I see the carpet.

Baz shows me how to make the bed like they do in fancy hotels, and after he's done, it actually looks like something I'd like to lie in. (Not just thrash around in and then inevitably fall out of.)

“Maybe we should move the TV in here,” I suggest.

“You would never leave your room again.”

I almost say, _And you'd have to come in here every night_. But I growl at him instead.

We pile up my engineering textbooks and discover that, under the mountains of chocolate bar wrappers and screwed up papers, there's a desk I can use to stack my folders and coursework on. Amazing.

We're almost done. I see something under the bed and crawl to reach it. My wings appeared after we got home and they get in the way, but this is one of the the times my tail comes in handy. It wraps around the newspaper and pulls it from under the bed.

“Baz, look.”

He's standing by the window, messing with the blinds.

"Curtains. I'm going to buy you a pair of curtains."

"I don't want curtains. Too much work."

"These blinds are inoperable. They won't open."

I shrug. "Why would I want to open them?"

He looks at me like I'm a mystery. "Daylight, Snow. Don't you require the _occasional_ burst of sun?"

"Daylight pisses me off."

"_Daylight__ pisses you off?"_

"Yeah. Anyway, it's better for you if stays a bit darker, isn't it?"

"Planning on granting me future admission to your bedroom, are you?"

"Well, yeah. Yes...if you want." (Maybe that sounds weird but I'm not going to backtrack.)

His face softens. He holds out his hand for the newspaper. "Fine. No curtains. What's this, then?"

“It's the advert Penny put in the paper.”

He takes it from me. His eyes are big. “You know, I asked Vera – Father's housekeeper – to have the London papers delivered to me nightly. I spent weeks looking for somewhere. Then I saw this. Part of me thought it was a bad idea to respond, but I did anyway...it was _such_ a strange advert. Something told me there was little choice in the matter. I had to call.”

"Yeah. Penny buggered up the e-mail address so I suppose you did have to call, really."

"That's not what I meant."

I start rummaging through the desk tidy for a pen, grinning.

“I know. You did have a choice though, Baz.”

"Did I really?"

"Yes. And you made the one right one. Congratulations."

We're both smiling now.

Together, we edit the advert into something more us:

* * *

**WANTED: ONE ** ** very good looking  ** **<strike>vampire</strike>**** FLATMATE**

Want to live in central London with <strike>all</strike> _**no**_ amenities <strike>paid for</strike>?  
Want to enjoy <strike>peace</strike> **fights**, <strike>quiet</strike> **goblin ambushes** and <strike>excellent company</strike> **rats à la carte**?  
We can't promise you that, but we can promise you:  
1 bedroom, shared bathroom _**(waiting time: 3+ hrs) **_& <strike>living</strike> _**TV**_ space,  
internet, <strike>phone line</strike>_** I've never found the phone line???**_, hot water & electricity.  
Successful applicant will be employed **at a bookshop **<strike>or in full-time study</strike> _**and dead sexy**_.  
Also neat, tidy and prepared to deal with _**very!!!**_ odd hours.  
Please contact Penny**'s mum** for rent & bills **(Penny's on holiday and Simon's clueless.)  
** (sorry, amenities aren't really paid for). **OBVIOUSLY!!**  
**Tel: 0800-R-U-A-MAGE? / Email: **<strike>pennyfindsaflatmate@PROVIDERUNSPECIFIED</strike>  
(nobody checks their email anymore)  
**p.s. No Marvins need apply!!!!!  
******

* * *

We sit on the end of my bed and I laugh until I can't remember what was funny. Then Baz takes my hand and says something so ridiculously perfect I could punch him. (I mean, I don't. But I could.) (Punch him in his perfect face and spend all night kissing it better.)

“This is the Crucible, Simon.”

“You what?”

“I remember you telling me that at Watford, on the first night, the Crucible matched you with your roommate. You were drawn together.”

“Yeah. That's right.” My roommate was this lad called Marvin who dropped out of school after the first week. He was a right downer. (Hang on...)

“Well,” he says. (Is he being shy? His eyelashes are _so _long.) “We may not have had Watford, but this advertisement drew us together. It brought me to the flat and you were here, swearing at me from the sofa. So_ this _is the Crucible, in a way.”

I chuck the newspaper across the room and kiss him like he's (hopefully) never been kissed in his life. There's a lot of bumping of noses and clashing of teeth, so it's probably fairly unique, as kisses go.

  
  


**BAZ**

I must have said the right thing because Simon's all over me like I'm a particularly appetising slice of goblin pizza, and it's all I can do to keep myself upright and not go tumbling off the end of his bed. (I could fend him off with my vampire strength, but why would I want to? I like it when he shoves me about like I'm a problem he's struggling to solve.) (Yes, fine, I'm a mess.)

We kiss until my lips ache and the only thing left in my head is bacon. He takes me by the hand and leads me into the living room, announcing he'll be right back with the chips.

“What are we doing on Sunday?” he asks, materialising with two clean plates and a fork for me, so I don't have to eat with my fingers. (He's wonderful and he truly has no idea.)

“Whatever you like,” I reply, settling into the Snow-shaped dip. He'll have to fight me to get his side of the sofa back. “It's the last day before my lectures start.” I looked online and my first module is about the Angry Young Men of the 1950s, which seems apt.

“We should go to Camden Market,” Simon says, passing me a full plate. “It's proper goth, so you'd blend right in.”

I raise an eyebrow. I can't resist. (I can't resist him.) “My aunt's always threatening to take me there.”

“Is she punk?”

“She certainly likes to think so.”

“Me and Penny went there sometimes. There's this place that sells chocolate chip cookies the size of your head. Do you like cookies?”

I settle back into the sofa, my eyes following his tail as it flits around his head. “I do.”

“That's sorted, then.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. We're constantly doing that, both of us, like we're drawn to each other. Like we're magnetic.

“Good choice, Simon,” I say.

He grins. “I know. I've been making good choices lately.”

_Another kiss, _I think, aching at his smile. _A kiss and all that comes after._

I lean into him. Simon meets me halfway.

And the world? Well, that can wait.


End file.
